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FzoiD  Uakpib's  Maoaxub. 


Copyright,  1884,  b;  lli.aPEa  A  Bbotusba. 


CHARLES   EEADE. 

From  tbe  Painting  bequeathed  by  Mr.  Reade  to  Meun.  Harper  &  lirothen. 


CHARLES    READB 

D.C.L. 

DRAMATIST,  NOVELIST,  JOURNALIST 


a  flDemolr 

COMPILED  CHIEFLY 

FROM    HIS    LITERARY    REMAINS 


BY 

CHARLES  L.  READE 

AND   THE 

REV.   COMPTON    READE 


NEW  YORK 

HARPER  k  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 

1887 


CHARLES  IlEADE'S  NOVELS. 


HARPER'S  nOUSEUOLD  EDITION. 
12mo,  Cloth.  Illustrated.  $1  00  per  volume. 

The  Cloister  aud  the  Hearth. 


A  Woman-Ilatcr. 

Hard  Cash. 

Foul  Play. 

White  Lies. 

Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long. 

Griffith  Ganiit. 

Put  Yourself  in  Ills  Place. 


It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend. 

Peg  VVofflngton.Cliristle  Johustonc,  and 

Other  Stories. 
A  Terrible  Temptation. 
A  Simpleton,  and  The  Wandering  Ileir. 
Good  Stories. 


A  Perilous  Secret    76  cents. 
Cloth,  $12  00  per  set  (14  vols.) ;  Half  Calf,  $3G  00  per  set. 


HARPER'S  POPULAR  EDITION. 
8vo,  Paper. 


A  Woman-llater.    Ill'd.    30  cents. 
A  Ilero  and  a  Martyr.    With  a  Por- 
trait.   15  cents. 
A  Simpleton.    30  cents. 
A  Terrible  Temptation.    Ill'd.    25  cts. 
F>ml  Play.    30  cents. 
Griffith  Gaunt.    Illustrated.    30  cents. 
Hard  Cash.    Illustrated.    35  cents. 
It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend.   36  cts. 


Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long.   30  cts. 

Peg  Wofflngton,  Christie  Johnstone, 
and  Other  Tales.    35  cents. 

Put  Yourself  in  His  Place.  Illustra- 
ted.   35  cents. 

The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth.    35  cts. 

The  Wandering  Heir.  Illustrated.  20 
cents. 

White  Lies.    80  cents. 


The  Jilt.    Illustrated.    32mo,  Paper,  20  cents;  Cloth,  36  cents. 

The  Coming  Man.    32mo,  Paper,  20  cents ;  Cloth,  36  cents. 

The  Picture.    IGmo,  Paper,  15  cents. 

Jack  of  all  Trades.    ICmo,  Paper,  15  cents. 

Good  Stories.    12mo,  Paper,  60  cents. 

A  Woman-Hater.    Illustrated.    12mo,  Paper,  20  cents. 

A  Perilous  Secret,    12mo,  Paper,  40  cents ;  4to,  Paper,  20  cents. 

Mnltum  in  Parvo.    Illustrated.    4to,  Paper,  15  cents. 

Good  Stories  of  Man  and  Other  Animals.   Ill'd.  4t<',  Paper,  20  cents. 


PciiusnKD  BV  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  Nkw  YonK. 

ly  Any  of  M«  o4o»«  ttiU.  aent  by  mail,  fottaga  pripaid,  to  any  part  of  tht  U.  8.,  on  rterijA  of  tht  prict. 


College 
Library 


?R 

AS 


^ 


TO 

LORD     LONDESBOROUGH  ;      SIR     HENRY     JAMES,     M.P.  ; 

MR.    EDWIN     ARNOLD,    C.S.I.  ;     REV.    C.    GRAHAM  ; 

MR.  WILKIE    COLLINS  ;    MR.  HENRY    IRVING  ; 

MRS.    JOHN     MAXWELL  ;     MISS     ELLEN     TERRY, 

AND    THOSE    MANY    OTHERS    WHO   KNEW   AND    LOVED 

CHAKLES  KEADE, 
®l)is  l)olutne  is  Jnscribeb  respectfuils 

BY   THE    COMPILERS, 

C.    L.    R. 

C.  R. 


8G4947 


PREFACE. 


This  biography  is  offered  to  the  public  as  a  compila- 
tion. It  will  be  found  to  contain  both  unpublished  MSS. 
of  Charles  Reade,  and  also  fragments  of  his  correspond- 
ence, with  numerous  extracts  from  his  diaries.  These 
have  been  selected  with  care,  from  a  voluminous  mass  of 
literary  and  personal  remains,  individually  by  Mr.  Charles 
L.  Reade,  the  deceased  author's  literary  executor  and 
residuary  legatee.  In  this  selection  he  has  been  guided 
solely  by  what  he  believes  to  have  been  the  wdshes  of 
Charles  Reade  and  the  reverence  due  to  his  memory. 

The  narrative  portion  of  these  volumes,  indeed  their 
entirety,  apart  from  the  matter  which  emanates  from 
Charles  Reade's  own  pen,  has  been  written  by  the  Rev. 
Compton  Reade,  on  whose  shoulders  therefore  devolves 
primarily  the  responsibility  of  authorship.  The  compilers 
deem  it  due  both  to  themselves  and  to  their  readers  thus 
precisely  to  define  their  respective  shares  in  the  book  as 
a  whole.  So  far  as  regards  what  is  here  presented  of 
Charles  Reade's  manuscript,  Mr.  Charles  L.  Reade  stands 
accountable ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  biography,  as  such, 
with  whatever  opinions  are  here  hazarded  on  men  and 
things,  must  be  referred  absolutely  and  exclusively  to  the 


viii  Preface. 

Rev.  Compton  Roade,  who  has  written  from  the  stand- 
point of  a  near  relative,  of  a  foundation  member — for  a 
quarter  of  a  century — of  his  uncle's  college,  and  of  a  close 
literary  association. 

The  compilers  have  with  gratitude  to  express  their  ob- 
ligation to  Arnold  Taylor,  Esq.,  of  the  Local  Government 
Board,  for  his  valuable  communication  in  reference  to  the 
authorship  of  "Masks  and  Faces,"  to  which  they  desire 
to  direct  the  especial  attention  of  all  interested  in  our  na- 
tional drama;  to  the  Rev.  C.  Graham,  Minister  of  the 
Avenue  Chapel,  Shepherd's  Bush,  for  permission  to  give 
extracts  from  letters  addressed  to  him  by  Charles  Reade ; 
to  the  "Very  Reverend  Canon  Bernard  Smith,  of  Great 
Marlow ;  to  Mrs.  John  Maxwell  (M.  E.  Braddon)  for  her 
affectionate  reminiscences  of  the  author ;  and  to  members 
of  his  family,  both  for  antiquarian  details  and  also  par- 
ticularly for  information  relating  to  the  boyhood,  and 

young  manhood  of  Charles  Reade. 

C.  L.  R. 
Obsett  Hall,  Fdiruary  1,  188T.  C.  R. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAFTSB  PAB« 

Introduction 1 

I.  Charles  Reade's  Mother 16 

II.  Babyhood 31 

III.  Under  the  Rod 41 

IV.  "At  Staines" 55 

V.  Saved  by  a  Second 64 

VI.  The  Demyship  Examination 73 

VII.  Undergraduate  Life 80 

VIII.  Elected  Fellow 89 

IX.  Studies  Law 97 

X.  "Magdalen" 106 

XI.  Paris  and  Geneva 116 

XII.  The  Hospice  of  St.  Bernard 132 

XIII.  Cremonaphilism 144 

XIV.  Paris  and  Ipsden 166 

XV.  Mrs.  Seymour.     .     » 177 

XVI.  Vice-President 203 

XVII.  Reade  t8.  Bentley 221 

XVIII.  Victory! 234 

XIX,  A  Vindication  op  Shakespeare 246 

XX,  Visits  to  Addington  and  Knebworth  ....  261 

XXL  Combative 268 

XXII.  "The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth"  .     .     .     .     .~  381 
A* 


X  Contents. 

CHAPTStt  riOl 

XXIII.  "Hard  Cash" 800 

XXIV.  TuE  Drama  "Skra  Nunquam" 317 

XXV.  Three  Novels  and  Three  Plays 832 

XXVI.  Ideal  Journalism 349 

XXVII.  Wisdom  and  Folly 363 

XXVIII.  Friends,  Fautors,  and  Favorites 380 

XXIX,  Dead-Sea  Fruit 413 

XXX.  Via  Calcanda 430 

Appendix 443 


A  MEMOIR 


OP 


CHARLES  RFADE,  D.C.L., 

DRAMATIST,  NOVELIST,  ESSAYIST. 


INTRODUCTION. 

BioGEAPHERS  for  the  most  part  begin  with  an  account 
of  the  ancestry  and  parentage  of  him  whose  life  they  re- 
produce. For  many  reasons  we  should  have  preferred  to 
vary  this  rule.  To  have  done  so,  however,  would  have 
been  to  obliterate  much  of  the  special  interest  which  en- 
vironed the  old  home  and  family  circle  whereof  Charles 
Reade  was  for  more  than  half  his  lifetime  the  central 
point.  Wc  will  so  far  apologise,  nevertheless,  for  the  in- 
trusion of  genealogical  matter,  by  relegating  it  to  an  in- 
troductory chapter,  to  be  read  or  passed  over  according 
to  individual  preference.  In  the  one  brief  autobiographi- 
cal sketch  which  exists  among  his  very  copious  literary 
remains,  we  find  that  he  devoted  about  a  tenth  pai't  of  its 
entirety  to  his  pedigree  ;  it  would  appear,  therefore,  that 
had  he  followed  the  example  of  Mr.  Trollope,  and  be- 
queathed a  compendious  narrative  of  himself,  he  would 
have  endeavored  not  only  to  tell  who  his  progenitors  were, 
1 


2  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

but  also  to  show  that  they  were  not  purchased  commodi- 
ties,    lie  has  himself  given  us  our  cue. 

The  author,  moreover,  upon  Avhose  individuality  we  here 
attempt  to  throw  such  light  as  may  be  afforded  by  our 
own  personal  knowledge,  that  of  others,  and  by  excerpts 
from  his  MSS.,  was  never  among  the  number  of  those  who 
affect  to  despise  heredity.  He  expended  time  and  labor  in 
verifying  the  ancient  family  records.  No  man  believed 
more  firmly  in  himself,  none  also  was  more  ready  to  ac- 
knowledge indebtedness  to  his  progenitors.  When  com- 
plimented on  his  sledge-hammer  letters  to  the  Daily  Tele- 
graph, he  parried  this  eulogium  with, "  A  piece  of  good- 
fortune  befell  us  in  the  last  century.  My  father's  grand- 
father married  the  daughter  of  the  village  blacksmith,  and 
from  her  we  arc  descended."  That  was  how  he  accounted 
for  the  hammer  of  Thor  his  right  hand  wielded.  It  may, 
perchance,  have  been  from  the  said  blacksmith  that  he  in- 
herited the  surpassing  force  which  seemed  to  give  him  the 
mastery  over  all  antagonism.  He  owed  his  imagination, 
however,  his  susceptibility,  his  sympathy  with  beauty,  his 
dramatic  instinct,  to  other  and  less  coarsened  sources. 
With  the  muscular  texture  of  the  rude  smith  were  inter- 
woven fibres  of  the  Court  and  the  Camp,  the  Senate  and 
the  Study.  He  regarded  himself — and  rightly — as  apart 
from  class,  yet  would  have  turned  in  hot  fury  upon  him 
who  dared  to  impugn  his  gentle  blood  ;  indeed,  his  almost 
romantic  reverence  for  his  ancestors  extended  beyond 
them,  to  their  acreage  and  mansions.  More  than  once  in 
his  literary  remains  we  find  a  mournful  reference  to  the  loss 
of  Brocket — entailed  in  strict  succession  on  his  own  branch 
of  the  family — so  much  so  as  almost  to  suggest  that  he  may 
at  one  time,  when  Fortune  was  at  her  zenith,  have  indulged 
a  secret  ambition  of  repurchasing  that  beautiful  demesne. 


Introduction.  3 

We  commence,  therefore,  his  biography  with  a  brief 
analysis  of  those  human  threads  whereof  his  nature  was 
composed.  Pedigrees,  by  those  who  do  not  happen  to 
possess  them,  are  commonly  supposed  to  be  shoddy  inven- 
tions designed  to  bolster  up  a  factitious  pride.  Happily, 
in  the  case  of  Charles  Reade,  his  ancestry  on  either  side 
for  about  four  centuries  is  capable  of  exact  verification, 
and  we  have  at  once  relieved  ourselves  from  the  charge  of 
snobbishness  by  putting  boldly  to  the  front  its  one  plebeian 
element.  We  shall  further  tell  the  whole  story  without 
coloring  or  gloss.  It  is  one  which  seems  to  confirm  the 
doctrine  of  heredity  by  reflecting  as  in  a  mirror  both  his 
faults  and  his  virtues. 

He  was  the  youngest  child  of  John  Reade,  lord  of  the 
manors  of  Ipsden  Huntercombe  and  Ipsden  Bassett,  and 
of  half  the  manor  of  Checkenden  in  the  county  of  Oxford, 
by  Anna  Maria,  eldest  daughter  of  Major  John  Scott- 
Waring,  M.P.  for  the  old  borough  of  Stockbridge,  Hants.* 
It  was  his  constant  boast  through  life  that  he  was^«r  ex- 
cdlence  his  mother's  son,  a  Scott -Waring  rather  than  a 
Reade.  This  was  an  injustice  in  more  senses  than  one  to 
his  sire,  to  whom  he  stood  indebted  for  whatever  of  good 
looks,  stature,  and  humor  he  possessed.  However,  inas- 
much as  his  mother's  brain  was  in  many  ways  the  replica 
of  his  own,  we  will  first,  in  brief,  trace  the  threads  of  her 
genealogy. 

Her  name  was  Scott,  Waring  being  added  by  her  father 
subsequently  to  her  marriage  with  John  Reade.  We  have 
therefore  to  deal  with  the  Scotts  of  Betton,  in  the  county 
of  Shropshire. 

lu  the  reign  of  Henry  VII.  (whose  Chief-Justice  and 

*  Disfranchised  by  Earl  Grey's  Reform  Bill  of  1832. 


4  Memoir  of  CJiarJcs  lieade. 

adviser,  by  the  way,  was  Sir  Robert  Rede)  there  occurred 
a  herald's  visitation  in  and  about  the  Welsh  Marches,  and 
the  reigning  Scott  of  Betton  was  required  to  produce  his 
pedigree.  He  did  so,  alleging  his  direct  descent  from 
Balliol  le  Scot  of  Scot's  Hall  in  Kent,  son  of  John  Balliol, 
nan  volutitate  hominum  King  of  Scotland.  The  heralds 
found  fault  with  Mr.  Scott's  pedigree,  but  gave  him  tinre 
to  prove  it.  The  verdict  subsequently  went  against  the 
Shropshire  gentleman  by  default,  but  it  must  not  hastily 
be  assumed  that  the  plea  was  erroneous.  It  is  a  far  cry 
from  Shrewsbury  to  Maidstone,  and  no  doubt  in  the  mid- 
dle ages  proofs  of  pedigree  depended  largely  for  their  regis- 
tration on  the  ability  of  the  heritor  to  disburse  largess  to 
the  heralds.  Be  that  as  it  may,  it  has  been  a  steady  tradi- 
tion with  the  Scotts  that  their  real  name  is  Balliol,  and  if 
that  be  true,  then  Charles  Reade  could  claim  consanguin- 
ity with  the  royal  house  of  Scotland. 

In  the  pedigree  of  the  Scotts  after  Henry  VII.'s  reign 
we  find  but  few  names  of  note.  A  Scott  in  the  last  century 
married  a  Miss  Sandford  of  the  Isle,  a  family  of  remote 
antiquity,  boasting  descent  from  Charlemagne,  and  Chai-les 
Reade's  great-grandfather  Scott  wedded  a  Miss  Waring 
of  Ince.  This,  as  it  proved,  was  a  great  match,  for  Miss 
Waring's  son,  Mrs.  Reade's  father,  eventually  inherited 
the  entirety  of  the  Waring  estates,  which  when  capitalized 
gave  a  grand  total  of  a  quarter  of  a  million  sterling  ;  and 
had  they  been  preserved,  inasmuch  as  Ince  is  now  yielding 
coal  abundantly,  would  have  produced  at  least  half  that 
amount  per  annum  in  rents  and  royalties.  That,  however, 
was  not  to  be.  John  Scott  went  to  India  as  a  mere  lad  in 
the  service  of  the  Company.  He  rose  to  be  Major,  and  be- 
came the  military  secretary  and  friend  of  Warren  Has- 
tings, then  Governor-General.     He  has  been  termed  Has- 


Introduction.  ^ 

tings's  evil  genius.  The  statement  should  be  inverted;  but 
of  that  anon. 

While  yet  a  subaltern  in  the  Madras  army  young  Scott 
met  a  Scotch  girl,  who,  if  an  ivory  miniature  is  to  be 
trusted,  must  have  been  supremely  lovel3^  Miss  Blackrie 
was  the  only  daughter  of  the  Surgeon-General  of  India, 
who  in  his  youth  had  fought  as  an  officer  in  the  army  of 
bonnie  Prince  Charlie  ;  but  when  the  romance  of  rebellion 
collapsed  at  Culloden,  exchanged  the  service  of  Mars  for 
that  of  Esculapius,  and  was  holding  a  position  of  profit  in 
consequence.  By  this  lady  Major  John  Scott  had  two 
daughters,  Mrs.  Reade  and  Mrs.  Faber;  and  two  sons,  Ed- 
ward, the  elder,  who  subsequently  became  a  distinguished 
Bengal  Civil  servant,  and  Charles,  who  died  young.  He 
resigned  his  appointment  upon  hearing  of  the  virulent  at- 
tacks made  upon  his  chief  by  Sir  Philip  Francis,  and  en- 
tered Parliament,  burning  with  zeal  to  confute  the  slanders 
which  Sir  Philip's  rancorous  hatred  had  invented  and 
spread  broadcast  against  his  friend. 

Lord  Macaulay,  with  his  usual  inaccuracy,  affirms  in  his 
essay  that  Scott  was  in  the  pay  of  Hastings.  Major  Scott, 
on  his  father's  death,  inherited  property  in  Shropshire;  his 
wife's  fortune  was  about  twenty  thousand  pounds,  and  he 
had  saved  money  in  India.  When  he  left  India  Mr.  Hast- 
ings was  his  debtor,  and  continued  so  for  many  years. 
The  accusation  that  he  was  paid  for  the  services  he  ren- 
dered to  his  friend  with  such  cordial  enthusiasm  was  false, 
and  all  the  more  ludicrous  because,  at  the  moment  when 
he  was  accused  of  plundering  Warren  Hastings,  he  had 
inherited  the  vast  estates  of  Mr.  Waring,  and  was  the 
wealthier  man  of  the  two.  Charles  Reade's  mother,  who 
was  passionately  fond  of  her  father,  wrote  a  calm  letter 
to  the  Whig  historian,  informing  him  of  the  facts,  which 


6  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

letter  was  never  acknowledged,  while  the  misstatement  in 
the  first  remained  uncorrected  in  the  subsequent  editions. 
Moreover,  Macaulay  gibbets  the  voluble  Major  for  calling 
Burke  a  reptile,  but  omits  to  state  that  this  amenity  was 
evoked  by  Burke  having  previously  styled  him  a  jackal. 
Major  John  Scott-Waring  has  sins  to  answer  for,  but  he 
was  lavishly  generous,  a  man  of  honor,  and  one  of  the 
readiest  debaters  in  a  brilliant  House  of  Commons. 

The  Major's  social  life  was,  in  some  respects,  more  im- 
portant than  his  political.  He  was  an  intimate  friend  of 
the  Prince  Regent  and  his  Royal  brothers,  none  the  less 
so,  perhaps,  because  his  second  and  third  wives  chanced  to 
be  members  of  the  dramatic  profession.  The  advocates 
of  heredity  might  assuredly  find  a  strong  confirmation 
of  their  doctrine  in  the  circumstance  of  grandfather  and 
grandson  being  equally  stage-struck.  Not  without  suifi- 
cient  cause  did  Charles  Reade  boast  his  close  affinity  with 
the  Scott-Warings. 

It  was  in  a  cultured  atmosphere,  therefore,  that  Charles 
Reade's  mother  passed  her  girlhood.  She  knew  every 
one.  The  Princes  and  Princesses,  Mr.  Pitt,  Sir  Jonah 
Barrington,  Charles  and  Robert  Grant,  Grattan  and  Sheri- 
dan, the  former  of  whom  dubbed  her  "My  pretty  Puri- 
tan." She  was  a  constant  habituee  of  the  Ladies'  Gallery 
in  the  House  of  Commons.  "  Mr.  Burke,"  she  was  wont 
to  declare  in  after-years,  "  would  not  now  be  listened  to. 
His  brogue  was  absurd.  He  persisted  in  calling  the 
Begum,  the  '  Baygum,'  though  every  one  even  then 
laughed."  Her  anecdotes  of  the  Pitt  and  Regency  period 
were  most  racy,  and  she  took  so  keen  an  interest  in  the 
Hastings  trial  as  to  have  passed  not  merely  hours,  but 
days,  in  court. 

Being  on  a  visit  at  the  country-seat,  in  Oxfordshire,  of 


Introduction.  ^ 

Lord  Charles  Spenser,  she  accompanied  her  host  and  host- 
ess to  the  Assize  ball,  and  danced  with  a  young  gentle- 
man commoner  of  Oriel  the  whole  evening.  The  ac- 
quaintance thus  formed  ripened  into  intimacy,  and  ended 
in  her  marriage  with  Mr.  Reade,  and  her  settling  down  at 
Ipsden  House  as  its  chatelaine,  celebrating  her  golden 
wedding  there,  and  beneath  its  eaves  giving  birth  to  her 
son  Charles. 

On  the  mother's  side,  therefore,  Charles  Reade  inherit- 
ed his  dramatic  instinct,  and  withal  a  vein  of  good,  honest 
Puritanism.  But  if  he  was  the  son  par  excellence  of 
Grattan's  pretty  Puritan,  he  was  also  the  grandson  of 
Prince  Florizel's  convive  and  boon  companion,  and,  be  it 
added,  the  grandson  of  the  braw  young  Highlander  who  did 
battle  for  bonnie  Prince  Charlie — a  gentleman,  whose  por- 
trait, by-the-bye,  suggests  the  student  rather  than  the  hero; 
but  then  it  was  painted  in  the  days  of  his  Surgeon-Gener- 
alship, after  he  had,  doubtless,  schooled  his  features  into  an 
expression  resembling  that  of  Lord  Chancellor  Thurlow. 

From  the  fine  old  English  gentleman  his  sire  Charles 
Reade  inherited  qualities  of  a  very  different  character. 
The  Squire  was  a  Bayard,  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche,  and 
as  he  was,  so  also  for  the  most  part  were  the  men  whose 
name  he  had  inherited.  Among  the  gentlemen  of  Oxon, 
Berks,  Bucks,  Herts,  and  Gloucester,  none  could  adduce 
a  braver  record  of  loyalty  to  Church  and  State  than  the 
race  styled  indifferently  Le  Rede,  Rede,  Reade,  and — this 
only  in  the  solitary  instance  of  a  fellow  of  St.  John's  Col- 
lege, Oxford,  who  dropped  the  final '  e  ' — Read,  albeit  Gen- 
eral Meredith  Read,  who  represents  the  American  branch 
of  the  family,  has  also  elided  the  characteristic  letter. 

In  the  year  1460,  William  of  Waynflete,  being  about  to 
build  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  received  from  a  neigh- 


8  Memoir  of  Charles  Itende. 

boring  land-owner  the  substantial  offer  of  stone  from  his 
quarry  of  Taynton  on  the  borders  of  Oxon  and  Gloucester- 
shire. In  the  deeds  of  the  last  century  this  estate  of 
Taynton,  subtending  the  superb  Royal  Forest  of  Wych- 
wood,  is  styled  "  the  ancient  inheritance,"  and  it  remained 
in  the  possession  of  the  family  till  18G8,  when  it  was 
willed  away  by  the  late  Sir  John  Chandos  Reade  to  his 
servant,  Joseph  Wakefield.  The  donor  of  stone  from  the 
Taynton  quarry  to  Waynflete  was  Sir  Edmund  Rede, 
who  is  styled  Baron  of  Boarstal,  and  was  himself  both  an 
ardent  churchman  and  a  lover  of  architecture.  He  re- 
built a  large  portion  of  Dorchester  Abbey,  the  noblest  of 
Oxfordshire  churches,  and  Boarstal  Tower,  at  the  foot  of 
Brill  Hill,  remains  as  a  monument  of  his  taste.  The 
tower  was  probably  erected  by  the  same  guild  or  com- 
pany of  masons  that  erected  Magdalen  College.  There 
must  have  been  an  Italian  among  them,  or  else,  as  is  prob- 
able, Sir  Edmund  himself  had  crossed  the  seas,  for  though 
the  outline  of  the  tower  is  late  perpendicular,  the  detail  is 
renaissance.  Sir  Edmund's  uncle  was  Bishop  of  Chiches- 
ter, and  his  father  a  benefactor  to  the  Abbey  of  St.  Al- 
bans. "Whether  he  ever  sat  in  the  House  of  Lords  as 
Baron  of  Boarstal  is  dubious,  but  that  indisputably  was 
his  style,  and  the  Fellows  of  Magdalen,  up  to  the  date  of 
the  Reformation,  said  masses  for  the  repose  of  his  soul.  So 
far  as  we  can  gain  a  glimpse  of  his  character  through  the 
long  vista  of  ages,  this  first  benefactor  of  Magdalen  Col- 
lege seems  to  have  been  a  zealot,  large  of  heart  and  chiv- 
alrous withal.  He  lived  a  celibate  life,  and  was  suc- 
ceeded by  his  nephew.  Sir  Robert  Le  Rede,  who  resided 
at  Beedon  in  Berks,  and  was  in  the  same  year  Sheriff  of 
Oxon,  Bucks,  and  Berks.  Sir  Robert  le  Rede  was  suc- 
ceeded by  his  son  William,  who  married  into  the  family 


Introduction.  9 

of  Beaumont  of  Cole  Orton,  the  direct  descendants  of 
King  Henry  III.  His  successor,  Thomas  Rede,  married  the 
daughter  of  Sir  William  Hoo  of  the  Hoo  in  Herts,  whose 
son  was  the  uncle  of  Queen  Anne  Boleyn,  and  created 
Baron  Hoo  and  Hastings.  But  the  most  illustrious  of 
the  name  was  Sir  Robert  Rede,  founder  of  the  Rede 
lecture  in  the  University  of  Cambridge,  Chief -Justice  of 
the  Common  Pleas,  Executor  of  the  will  of  Henry  VH., 
and  one  of  the  guardians  of  King  Henry  VIH.  during  his 
minority.  Sir  Robert  obtained  a  fresh  grant  of  arms, 
which  have  been  borne  ever  since  by  the  family,  and  are 
quite  distinct  from  the  coat  of  the  Barons  of  Boarstal. 
It  was  at  one  time  attributed  erroneously  to  his  influence 
that  on  the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries,  the  Barton 
estate  at  Abingdon,  consisting  of  the  palatial  abbot's  resi- 
dence and  pleasaunce,  came  into  the  possession  of  William 
Rede  of  Beedon,  the  purchaser,  in  1539,  of  the  Manors  of 
Ipsden  Huntercombe  and  Ipsden  Bassett.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  Barton  estate  was  acquired  by  purcliase.  Ipsden 
became  the  dower  of  his  granddaughter  Catherine,  who 
married  a  Mr.  Vachell.  The  inventory  of  their  furniture 
is  still  preserved  at  Ipsden;  but,  unluckily,  the  bridegroom 
being  a  Popish  recusant,  two  thirds  of  the  rental  of  Ips- 
den during  his  lifetime  were  forfeited  to  the  Crown. 
Mrs.  Vachell  died  childless,  and  Ipsden  at  her  death  was 
inherited  by  her  nephew.  Sir  Thomas  Reade. 

Sir  Thomas  succeeded  his  father  at  Barton  Court,  as 
the  Abbatial  Palace  was  renamed,  and  married  the  only 
daughter  of  a  Spanish  Adventurer,  Sir  John  Brocket,  of 
Brocket  Hall,  Hatfield,  son-in-law  of  Sir  John  Lytton  of 
Knebworth.  Barton  being  the  appanage  of  the  elder 
son,  the  second  son,  John,  obtained  his  mother's  estate, 
and  as  the  owner  of  Brocket  was  created  a  Baronet  in 
1* 


10  Memoir  of  Charles  Beade. 

1626,  which  honor  expired  with  his  grandson,  who,  as  the 
monument  in  Hatfield  Church  tells  us,  died  while  on  his 
travels  abroad,  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-two,  unmarried,* 
and  at  his  death  Brocket  Hall  passed  to  his  sisters  as  co- 
heiresses. 

Sir  Thomas  Reade's  elder  son  married  a  daughter  of 
Sir  Gilbert  Cornewall,  Baron  of  Burford,  in  Shropshire, 
the  direct  lineal  descendant  —  with  the  bar  sinister  —  of 
King  John.  This  lady's  sister  had  wedded  Speaker  Len- 
thall,  a  fortunate  circumstance  for  at  least  one  Reade,  as 
events  proved,  for  the  times  were  troublous,  and,  true  to 
their  traditions,  the  junior  members  of  the  family  were 
ardent  Church  and  State  men.  They  had  given  to  the 
former,  for  old  Sir  Thomas,  following  the  example  of  Sir 
Edmund  of  Boarstal,  had  built  an  aisle  in  St.  Helen's 
Church,  Abingdon,  and  had  benefited  by  the  latter. 
Hence,  when,  later  on,  the  civil  war  broke  out,  none  were 
more  devoted  to  the  losing  cause. 

Compton  Reade  stands  out  in  the  history  of  the  family 
at  this  epoch  in  bold  relief.  He  was  the  eldest  son  and 
heir  to  Barton  and  Beedon,  with  the  ancient  estate  at 
Tayn ton,  while  his  next  brother,  Edward,  was  heir  of  Ips- 
den,  and  heir  presumptive  of  Brocket  Hall.  At  the  age 
of  nineteen  this  fine  young  cavalier  raised  a  regiment  of 
horse  for  the  King,  which  fonned  a  contingent  of  the 
splendid  cavalry  of  Prince  Rupert.  There  is  a  record  in 
the  Bodleian  Library  of  his  personal  encounter  with  Col- 
onel Barrett  of  the  Parliamentary  forces.  He  was  not 
only  present  at  the  earlier  battles  of  the  campaign,  but 
also  at  the  siege  of  Worcester,  after  which  crowning 

*  The  tradition  is  that  he  formed  one  of  the  suite  of  the  Pretender. 
He  died  in  Rome  of  small-pox. 


Introduction.  1 1 

mercy  to  the  Parliamentarians,  although  the  Royal  Stand- 
ard was  down,  he  defended  Barton  Court  against  the 
guns  of  Fairfax  till  it  was — as  Dr.  Plot  puts  it — burned 
over  his  head.  Years  ago  they  used  to  show  a  cannon- 
ball  embedded  in  the  gray  masonry  of  the  ruins  of  this 
noble  pile  ;  but  Barton  Court  and  the  heroism  of  its 
young  master  have  long  been  forgotten. 

Thanks  to  the  influence  of  Speaker  Lenthall,  Compton's 
life  was  spared,  as  also  that  of  his  younger  brother  Ed- 
ward, who  had  been  his  lieutenant.  Doubtless  they  had 
a  bad  time  of  it  during  the  Commonwealth;  but  at  the 
Restoration,  Compton  was  rewarded  with  a  baronetcy  and 
a  grant  of  money  by  Parliament  as  a  solatium  for  the 
loss  of  Barton.  At  the  request  of  the  King,  he  invested 
this  lump  sum  in  the  purchase  of  the  Royal  residence  of 
Shipton  Court,  near  Wychwood  Forest,  and  adjoining  his 
lands  at  Taynton.  To  reveal  an  ugly  secret — the  "  Mer- 
rie  Monarch  "  had  bestowed  Shipton  on  one  of  the  ladies 
of  his  Court,  and  this  personage  preferred  ready  money  to 
a  gabled  residence  with  the  privilege  of  shooting  bucks. 
It  was  very  much  what  we  should  call  a  job,  but  Comp- 
ton got  a  new  home  and  the  lady  her  money,  all  at  the 
expense  of  the  British  taxpayer,  so  everybody  was  pleased 
all  round. 

Young  Edward,  however,  did  not  fare  so  well.  He, 
poor  fellow,  was  not  an  eldest  son,  but  had  borne  the  risks 
of  loyalty,  and,  worse  still,  had  mortgaged  Ipsden  up  to 
the  hilt.  The  old  house  where  Catherine  Vachell  had 
lived  was  tumbling  to  pieces  for  lack  of  repair  ;  and  in- 
stead of  being  granted  largess  by  a  complaisant  Parlia- 
ment, he  found  himself  under  lock  and  key  in  Oxford 
Castle  for  debt.  There  exists  some  very  strange  corre- 
spondence anent  this  ill-starred  cavalier,  who,  by-the-bye 


12  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

malgre  his  reverses,  contrived  to  marry  four  Avives.  One 
letter  is  from  his  detaining  creditor,  addressing  him  as 
Right  "Worshipful  Sir,  and  politely  hoping  that  his  health 
does  not  suffer  from  his  incarceration.  Another  is  from 
the  old  cavalier  himself  to  one  of  his  wives,  petulantly 
grumbling  because  she  had  neglected  to  forward  his 
leather-breeches.  A  third  is  from  his  eldest  son — another 
Compton,  who  was  fellow  of  St.  John's,  expressing  a  hope 
that  number  four  might  be  a  lass  with  a  little  money. 
Edward  lived  to  a  green  old  age  in  spite  of  his  misfor- 
tunes, leaving  his  eldest  surviving  son  his  estate.  His 
younger  son,  Philip  Edward,  was  a  poet,  whose  erotic 
verses  have  unfortunately  been  lost,  and  also  much  given 
to  experiments  in  metallurgy,  at  a  place  called  Braziers, 
hard  by  Ipsden,  with  the  design  of  discovering  the  phi- 
losopher's stone. 

Philip,  Edward's  nephew,  however,  who  shortly  after, 
at  the  age  of  sixteen,  inherited  Ipsden,  made  that  discov- 
ery, though  not  through  the  medium  of  metals.  Enter- 
ing, when  he  attained  his  majority,  on  a  mortgaged  estate, 
with  a  ruinous  mansion,  and  little  of  any  value  except  the 
fine  stock-timber  in  the  park,  he  registered  a  resolve  to  re- 
trieve the  fortunes  of  his  branch  of  the  family  by  industry 
and  thrift.  His  property  ran  for  four  miles  in  an  unbroken 
line,  three  fourths  being  grass  and  corn  land,  and  one 
fourth  wood.  At  that  time — it  was  the  commencement  of 
the  last  century — wheat  was  gold,  and  the  soil  of  Ipsden 
produced  magnificent  cereals.  In  order  to  obtain  capital, 
he  felled  all  the  timber  in  his  park,  pulled  down  the  man- 
sion, erected  new  farm  buildings,  broke  up  the  grass,  and 
began  farming  on  a  large  scale.  His  books  remain  to  show 
how,  little  by  little,  he  paid  off  first  one  mortgage,  then  an- 
other, then  cleared  the  estate,  then  enlarged  what  had  been 


Introduction.  13 

the  ancient  manor-house  before  his  ancestor  had  built  a 
mansion  for  Catherine  Vachell,  and  finally  added  three 
farms  to  his  acreage.  His  portrait  represents  a  man  who 
could  drive  a  hard  bargain;  possibly  he  did  sometimes, 
but  he  could  boast  with  truth  that  he  had  found  out  the 
real  philosopher's  stone. 

He  could  not,  however,  have  been  altogether  hard- 
natured,  for  there  remains  a  pane  of  glass  whereon  he  had 
cut  with  a  diamond  "Bridget  Brigham  has  no  faults." 
That  was  in  his  early  youth.  He  married  the  same  fault- 
less Bridget,  who  was  the  daughter  of  the  Squire  of  Cane 
End,  and  years  after,  when  she  lay  under  the  sod  in  Ips- 
den  churchyard,  mysteriously  disappeared  one  fine  day; 
so  also  did  Martha  Bartholomew,  the  daughter  of  the  vil- 
lage blacksmith,  whose  sister  subsequently  married  Mr. 
Thomas,  the  Vicar  of  Ipsden;  and  when  Squire  John  re- 
turned, Martha  was  by  his  side  as  Mrs.  Reade,  Wonder- 
fully lovely,  so  the  tale  goes,  was  the  bride,  as  also  her 
sister.  Anyhow,  the  Squire  thought  so,  and  in  the  days 
of  his  prosperity  too.  She  bore  him  children,  bat  did  not 
outlast  her  beauty.  They  went  in  state  with  four  horses 
and  the  family  coach  to  visit  his  cousin.  Sir  John,  at  Ship- 
ton  Court,  and  she  died  during  her  visit.  The  Squire  did 
not  long  survive  her,  and  at  his  decease  Ipsden  went  to  his 
grandson,  then  a  child  of  two  years  old. 

We  have  already  adverted  to  the  story  of  this  same 
child,  Charles  Reade's  father.  He  was  educated  at  Rugby 
and  Oriel,  was  during  part  of  his  life  master  of  his  own 
harriers,  and  though  pressed  to  enter  Parliament  as  the 
friend  of  such  men  as  Lord  Charles  Spencer,  Vansittart, 
afterwards  Lord  Bexley,  Lord  Chancellor  Thurlow,  and 
Warren  Hastings,  steadily  refused  to  abandon  his  country 
life  and  field  sports.     But,  if  he  lost  a  splendid  chance,  no 


14  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

man  was  a  wiser  or  a  kindlier  father.  His  seven  sons  wor- 
shipped him  for  his  noble  bearing,  his  manliness,  conscien- 
tiousness, and  ready  wit.  Ipsden  House,  though  the  least 
pretentious  of  residences,  attracted  men  of  station,  men  of 
letters,  and  the  best  minds  of  the  university.  Among  the 
guests  whose  names  recur  to  memory  haphazard  among 
the  visitors  there,  may  be  enumerated — besides  Warren 
Hastings  and  Lord  Thurlow  —  George  Grote,  Frederick 
Faber,  Wilberforce  and  his  sons  Robert,  Samuel,  and 
Henry,  Lord  Lytton,  Bishops  Barrington,  Hampden, 
Charles  Baring,  Jacobson,  the  two  Sumners,  Doctors  Mac- 
bride,  Plumptre,  Ellerton,  Cadogan,  and  Kennicot.  The 
genius  loci  was  both  clerical  and  literary.  The  Squire 
never  forgot  his  scholarship ;  and  his  wife,  besides  being 
the  most  brilliant  of  conversationalists,  read  every  book 
that  came  out.  Whatever  Ipsden  House  was,  it  could  not 
be  charged  with  bucolic  dullness.  Charles  Reade  was 
born  into  a  refined  family  circle,  for  his  mother  had  the 
hel  air  of  the  Court,  and  his  father  was  a  gentleman  of  the 
old  school. 

We  have  thus  roughly  enumerated  the  leading  threads 
which  went  to  form  the  individuality  of  the  dramatist  and 
novelist.  On  his  father's  side  he  boasted  the  blood  of  the 
Beaumonts,  descended  from  King  Henry  III.,  and  of  the 
Cornewalls,  through  a  morganatic  marriage  from  the  King 
of  the  Romans,  son  of  King  John.  His  direct  ancestors 
had  been  Catholics  and  High  Churchmen;  his  parents  were 
Low  Church  people.  The  race  had  produced  a  lawyer  of 
eminence,  besides  courtiers  and  cavaliers.  With  them  he 
mingled  the  blood  of  Brocket  the  adventurer  and  Bar- 
tholomew the  smith,  while  he  combined  the  idiosyncrasies 
of  Edward  Reade  the  spendthrift,  and  old  John  Reade, 
the  self-help  man,  who  saved  the  Ipsden  Reades  from  ruin. 


Introduction.  15 

On  his  mother's  side  he  may  possibly  have  inherited  a 
Btrain  of  the  old  Balliol  blood;  but  the  Scotts,  being  dwell- 
ers on  the  Welsh  Marches,  must  have  been  more  or  less 
Cambrian,  and  Mrs.  John  Reade's  mother  was  a  Highland 
lassie.  There  were  points  of  resemblance,  undoubtedly, 
between  the  author  of  "  Griffith  Gaunt "  and  "  A  Terrible 
Temptation  "  and  his  grandsire,  the  Epicurean  major;  but 
the  grandson  was  immeasurably  his  maternal  grandfather's 
superior. 

Being,  as  we  have  seen,  a  blende  of  inequalities — of 
Blue  and  Red  blood,  of  the  Farm  and  of  the  Court,  of 
Catholic  and  Calvinist,  of  Epicure  and  Ascetic,  of  Spend- 
thrift and  Miser,  of  Adventurer  and  Stay-at-home,  of 
fighting  Cavalier  and  homely  Artisan,  Charles  Reade  was, 
perhaps  necessarily,  a  mass  of  contradictions.  Assuming, 
for  argument's  sake,  that  the  attributes  of  these  various 
ancestors  with  special  intensity  concentrated  in  his  person, 
BO  complex  an  amalgam  could  hardly  be  commonplace; 
nevertheless,  with  all  his  eccentricity,  he  never  descended 
below  his  own  level,  which,  as  he  would  have  told  you, 
was  that  of  a  man  of  ancestry,  though,  owing  to  the  acci- 
dent of  being  natu  junior,  not  also  of  acres.  Whether 
genius,  or,  as  Trollope  sneered,  only  "  almost  a  genius," 
he  lived,  as  he  was  born,  a  gentleman,  and  died  a  Chris- 
tian. To  his  country  he  gave  the  product  of  a  brilliant 
and  independent  brain,  and  he  rescued  an  old  name  from 
obscurity.  We  all  owe  him  a  debt,  we  of  the  English- 
speaking  races,  but  especially  those  of  his  own  kith  and 
kin,  for  if  a  man  in  his  faults,  he  was  more  than  a  man  in 

his  virtues. 

"  In  memoria  eterna  erunt  justi. 
Ab  auditione  mal4  non  timebunt." 


CHAPTER  I. 

CHARLES  KEADe's  MOTHER. 

The  Gracchi,  who  Were  the  moral  politicians  of  Re- 
publican Rome,  the  Wesley s,  the  moral  religionists  of 
monarchic  England,  both  owed  their  superiority  to  the 
formative  influence  of  their  mothers.  And  these  phe- 
nomenal mothers  were  pre-eminently  human  creatures  of 
flesh  and  blood,  brain  and  force,  as  well  as  of  sweetness 
and  light.  They  were  not  nuns;  they  were  not  hysteri- 
cal; nevertheless,  they  were  much  the  reverse  of  common- 
place, while  their  ambitions  soared  aloft,  and  were  all  the 
nobler  because  of  being  not  for  themselves,  but  for  their 
offspring.  They  desired  to  see  their  sons  both  great  and 
good;  not  great  only,  but  great  and  good;  not  good  only, 
but  above  their  fellows  in  intellectual  capacity.  They 
have  their  reward.  History  speaks  of  no  women  in  terms 
of  such  reverence.  You  must  obliterate  the  records  of 
the  past  before  you  can  abrogate  their  fame;  indeed, 
whatever  Rome  owed  to  the  Gracchi  she  owed  to  the 
Spartan  virtues  of  the  woman  who  gave  them  birth  ;  and 
our  national  debt  to  the  Wesleys,  the  magnitude  of  which 
we  hardly  as  yet  can  realize,  may  be  carried  back  to  the 
homely  parson's  wife  who  trained  them  to  be  truthful 
and  God-fearing,  temperate  and  brave. 

Like  them,  the  mother  of  Charles  Reade  was  no  com- 
mon woman.  Born  under  the  torrid  sun  of  Madras,  im- 
mersed while  yet  a  girl  in  the  life  of  politics,  society,  and 


Charles  Readis  Mother.  17 

the  Court,  she  was  before  all  things  a  lady.  Haydn  taught 
her  music,  and  Sheridan  epigram  and  repartee.  Her  man- 
ner was  perfect,  and  her  conversational  powers  so  extraor- 
dinary as  to  have  fascinated  so  superior  a  master  of  rhet- 
oric as  Samuel  Wilberforce.  There  never  was  a  more 
omnivorous  devourer  of  books;  yet  though  she  read  in- 
cessantly  during  her  span  of  ninety  years,  she  never  varied 
by  one  iota  the  strong  opinions  formed  in  early  life,  opin- 
ions wherewith  she  indoctrinated  every  one  of  her  eleven 
children,  and  that  not  superficially,  but  rather  as  a  matter 
of  unalterable  conviction.  Being,  however,  essentially  a 
woman  of  fashion,  her  religion  was  tempered  by  worldli- 
ness.  "  My  mother,"  aphorized  her  son  Charles,  "  is  pre- 
eminently feminine.  She  is  consistent  in  her  inconsis- 
tency." 

It  was  on  the  eve  of  the  great  French  Revolution  that 
she  was  married  to  John  Reade,  in  the  old  parish  church 
of  Bromley  in  Kent,  and  on  the  same  day  travelled  with 
her  squire  to  Ipsden,  where,  ne  cretd  careat  pulchra  dies 
notd,  she  planted  a  larch  on  the  lawn.  The  quaint  old 
house,  which  had  sufficed  for  thrifty  John  Reade,  her  hus- 
band's grandsire,  did  not  at  all  meet  her  ideas.  It  was 
by  no  means,  to  employ  her  own  terminology,  "  sufficient- 
ly genteel."  The  red-brick  and  flint-stone  dressings  of- 
fended her  eye,  accustomed  alike  to  the  "  bungalows  "  of 
the  East  and  to  the  Georgian  architecture  of  suburban 
London.  Hence  her  first  act  was  to  paint  the  old  house  a 
garish  white,  and  her  next  to  throw  out  enormous  bow- 
windows  of  mahogany,  whereby  the  two  chief  reception- 
rooms  Avere  enlarged,  but  the  house  itself  was  invested 
with  the  appearance  of  a  villa.  After  that  she  bunied 
several  family  portraits  which  were  not  up  to  her  aesthetic 
level,  exchanged  the  huge  medieval  salt-cellar,  which  had 


18  Memoir  of  Charles  Beade. 

been  used  at  audit  dinners  to  tbe  tenants,  for  a  teapot,  and 
settled  down  to  a  long  reign. 

At  first  Ipsden  House  was  merry  enough.  Grattan  had 
styled  her  "  My  pretty  Puritan,"  but  there  was  not  much 
of  the  latter  quality  conspicuous  either  in  her  or  her  squire, 
whose  indiscipline  had  not  been  largely  appreciated  by 
the  fellows  of  his  college.  All  his  old  friends  of  Oriel 
and  Christ  Church  came  in  shoals  to  visit  their  whilom 
companion  and  his  bride.  There  was  at  that  time  a  pack 
of  harriers  in  the  kennels,  and  four  English  miles  of  shoot- 
ing, over  and  above  the  attraction  of  a  lady  who  knew 
everybody  about  town.  So  the  game  progressed  right 
merrily,  and  had  it  continued,  though  she  brought  her 
husband  some  fortune,  the  chances  are  that  the  Ipsden  es- 
tate would  have  again  required  nursing.  A  change,  how- 
ever, came  over  the  spirit  of  their  dream. 

There  had  been  at  Oriel  with  young  Squire  John  a 
scholar  of  the  name  of  Fry.  This  gentleman's  brains  and 
heart  were  vastly  superior  to  his  manner  and  appearance. 
In  college  he  had  been  anathema  to  a  set  numbering 
among  others  the  late  Lords  Devon  and  Charles  Spencer, 
Brummel,  Stackhouse,  and  Pendarves;  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
the  Squire  dubbed  him  "  a  vulgar  fellow,"  whose  gray 
stockings  were  a  cause  of  offence,  and  whose  clay  pipe  one 
of  absolute  abomination.  It  chanced,  however,  that  the 
Vicar  of  Ipsden,  a  divine  much  given  to  partridge-shoot- 
ing, who  conducted  a  funeral  in  sporting  garb,  plus  of 
course  the  necessary  surplice,  fell  sick,  and  Mr,  Fry  came 
as  his  Locum  Tenens.  "  You  must  ask  the  gentleman  to 
dinner,"  said  Mrs.  Reade.  "I  really  can't,"  pleaded  the 
Squire.  However,  though  the  good  man  was  not  invited 
to  the  festive  board,  both  John  Reade  and  his  young  wife 
paid  him  the  compliment  of  occupying  the  family  pew 


Charles  Headers  Mother.  19 

on  Sunday,  and  they  who  came  to  scoff  remained  to 
pray. 

The  plain,  vulgar,  ungainly  scholar,  in  a  word,  had  de- 
veloped into  a  mighty  jireacher.  He  had  caught  the  fer- 
vor of  the  original  Methodists,  and  his  rhetoric,  if  delivered 
with  a  provincial  accent,  was  of  the  type  that  strikes  hard 
and  strikes  home.  After  church  the  Squire  turned  to  his 
wife  and  said, "  I  wish  I  had  asked  Fry  to  dinner.  I'll 
ask  him  now."  And  so  he  did,  with  a  courteous  apology 
for  his  previous  laches,  and  the  scholar  with  the  gray 
stockings  pocketed  the  affront,  walked  back  with  them  to 
the  house,  nearly  a  mile,  and  metamorphosed  both.  The 
Squire  dropped  his  Oriel  friends,*  family  prayers  became 

*  One  of  his  old  Oxford  set  never  relaxed  his  intimacy  with  the  Squire. 
This  was  Henry  Peclcwell,  student  of  Christ  Church,  who  afterwards  as- 
sumed the  name  of  Blosset,  and  as  Sir  Henry  Blosset  was  Chief-Justice  of 
tlie  Supreme  Court  of  Calcutta,  and  uncle  of  George  Grote,  the  historian. 
This  gentleman  rode  over  to  Ipsden  to  learn  that  Squire  John  had  an  heir, 
and,  returning  to  hi3  college  rooms,  indited  the  following  stanzas  : 

"  Through  Dorchester,  as  journeying  late, 
I  passed  the  churchyard's  ancient  gate, 

And  mused  in  pensive  mood, 
Immortal  sounds  I  seemed  to  meet ; 
Trembling  I  stopp'd,  when  at  my  feet 
A  meagre  phantom  stood. 

" '  Three  hundred  years,'  it  cried, '  and  more, 
My  body  near  yon  aged  tower 

Has  slept  in  sacred  peace. 
I  dwell  in  Heaven,  in  glory  there  :• 

I  watch,  and  with  a  father's  care 
Protect  my  manly  race. 

"  As  each  new  heir  hia  breath  receives, 
Those  peaceful  realms  my  spirit  leaves, 
His  future  state  to  learn. 


20  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

an  institation  at  Ipsden,  everything  mundane  was  sent  to 
the  right-about,  bar  the  harriers — to  have  dispersed  the 
pack  would  liave  been  too  severe  a  sacrifice  for  Mr.  John 
Reade — and  Mr.  Fry  was  constituted  father  confessor. 
He  brought  over  from  Lincoln  College  his  bosom  friend, 
George  Stanley  Faber,  a  Yorkshireman  with  an  incompre- 
hensible dialect,  but  a  magnificent  brain,  which  latter  di- 
vine married  Mrs.  Reade's  sister,  and  for  nearly  sixty  years 
subsequently  kept  up  a  continuous  correspondence  with 
Ipsden,  mostly  on  the  subject  of  prophecy,  for  he  was  the 
Gumming  of  the  period,  and  certainly  justified  his  reputa- 
tion by  foretelling  the  Second  Empire,  almost  before  the 
first  had  attained  its  zenith.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  of  the 
two  divines  who  influenced  so  largely  both  the  Squire  of 
Ipsden  and  his  wife,  Faber  was  by  far  the  more  intellectual 
and  presentable.  Both  of  them  were  Doric,  but  the  one 
was  cultured  ;  whereas  the  other,  knov>'n  afterwards  as 
Fry  of  Bath,  though  a  splendid  preacher  and  fine  Hebrew 
scholar,  never  attained  to  the  semblance  of  a  gentleman. 
In  his  old  age  a  long  pipe  and  spittoon  were  his  insepara- 
ble companions,  but  withal  he  was  a  good  man  and  a  good 
Christian. 

The  conversion  of  Mrs.  Reade  to  the  tenets  of  high  Cal- 

To  Ipsden  journeying  now,  for  there 
My  first  delight,  my  tenderest  care, 
A  lovely  babe  is  born." 

Sir  Henry,  of  course,  refers  to  Sir  Edmund  Rede,  the  rebuilder  of  Dor- 
chester Abbey,  whose  remains  rest  under  its  shadow.  But  the  doctrine  of 
the  good  Chief- Justice,  even  for  179*7,  when  nobody  was  suspected  of  Ro- 
manism, must  have  staggered  the  theological  mother  of  the  said  lovely 
babe.  According  to  Sir  Henry,  the  successive  heirs  to  Ipsden  and  Shipton 
were  placed  under  the  patronage  of  saintly  Sir  Edmund :  This  indeed  was 
rank  Papistry. 


Charles  Readers  Mother.  21 

vinism  affected  the  entire  atmosphere  of  Ipsden  for  more 
than  half  a  century.  If  the  Vicar  was  a  Gallio,  the  vil- 
lage became  one  of  the  most  religious  in  the  county.*    No 

*  Influenced  by  Mr.  Fry's  teacliing,  the  Squire,  to  whom  all  the  cottages 
in  the  villiige  of  Ipsden  belonged,  invited  his  humble  tenants  to  come  up 
to  the  House  on  Sundays  when  there  was  no  service  in  the  church  and  read 
with  him ;  or,  if  they  could  not  read,  hear  him  read,  and  explain  one  or 
two  chapters  in  the  Bible  for  their  mutual  edification.  Mr.  Wright,  the 
then  Incumbent  of  Ipsden,  gave  only  one  service  on  Sundaj',  and  some- 
times that  one  was  pretermitted.  His  sermon,  accurately  timed  to  ten 
minutes,  was  (unlike  his  example)  moral,  but  often  incomprehensible  to 
his  humble  hearers,  and  there  his  active  clerical  life  ceased ;  comforting 
the  afflicted,  visiting  the  sick  and  dying,  appeared  to  form  no  part,  in  his 
opinion,  of  a  clergyman's  duty.  Mrs.  Reade  might  fulfil  it  if  she  thought 
fit — he  offered  no  objection ;  but  when  it  came  to  a  layman  reading  the 
Bible  to  other  laymen  his  wrath  kindled,  and  he  incontinently  addressed  a 
vehement  letter  to  the  Bishop  of  Oxford,  urging  his  lordship  at  once  to 
proceed  against  the  Squire  for  holding  a  Conventicle  in  his  house  contrary 
to  law.  The  bishop  wrote  a  kind  letter  to  Mr.  Reade,  reminding  him,  as  an 
active  magistrate,  tiiat  the  law  prohibited  the  assembling  together  under  a 
roof  of  more  than  twenty  persons,  either  for  religious  or  political  objects. 
The  Squire  replied,  explaining  what  the  real  facts  were,  and  that  the  num- 
ber of  the  cottagers  who  met  together  had  never  exceeded  twelve.  The 
bishop's  reply  was,  nevertheless,  looked  for  with  some  anxiety.  After  a 
few  days  it  came,  the  family  being  seated  at  breakfast  at  the  time.  Mr. 
Reade  read  the  letter  in  silence,  and  with  a  grave  face.  Mrs.  Reade,  who 
was  on  tenter-hooks,  at  last  could  contain  herself  no  longer.  "My  dear 
John,"  she  exclaimed,  "  what  does  the  bishop  say  ?"  "  Well,  my  dear," 
her  husband  quietly  replied,  "  in  substance,  that  Reade  is  right  and  Wright 
is  wrong."  In  fact,  the  bishop  warmly  approved  of  the  course  Mr.  Reade 
had  pursued,  and  urged  him  to  continue  it.  Thus  fortified,  a  Sunday- 
school,  nearly,  if  not  quite,  the  first  in  Oxfordshire,  was  established  and 
supported  by  the  Squire  at  his  sole  expense.  Later  on  he  built  a  school- 
house  for  day  as  well  as  Sunday  scholars,  the  mistress  who  presided  being 
styled  the  Dame;  and  in  that  school  Mrs.  Reade,  her  children,  grandchil- 
dren, and  great  grandchildren  have  taught  successive  generations  of  the 
Ipsden  poor  for  upwards  of  eighty  years. 


fia  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

public-house  offered  a  counter-attraction  to  the  Bible,  and 
the  boys  and  girls  who  with  rapid  succession  put  in  an  ap- 
pearance at  Ipsden  House  between  the  years  1797  and  1814 
acquired  a  belief  which  never  deserted  them.  It  is  but 
just  to  add  that  no  mother  ever  labored  with  more  un- 
remitting exertion  to  make  her  children  capable.  She 
would  have  had  every  one  distinguished,  for  the  medioc- 
rity which  satisfied  her  really  clever  but  totally  unambi- 
tious husband,  to  her  was  most  abhorrent.  Not  once  nor 
twice  was  John  lieade  urged  by  her  to  enter  on  a  Parlia- 
mentary career,  for  which  he  was  personally  fitted,  being 
gifted  with  a  noble  presence  and  a  fluent  tongue,  while  his 
interest  in  an  age  when  interest  carried  everything  was 
overpowering.  The  dogs  and  the  woods  satisfied  the  born 
country  gentleman,  and  his  wife,  therefore,  centred  all  her 
hopes  in  her  sons.  Earnestly,  almost  oppressively,  she 
sought  to  fire  them  with  her  vaulting  ambition  to  be  first 
among  the  first.  The  names  of  John  Thurlow  Reade  and 
of  Edward  Anderdon  Reade  live  still  in  the  memory  of 
the  dark-skinned  inhabitants  of  the  northwest  provinces 
of  India ;  but  of  all  her  sons  the  name  of  Charles  Reade 
alone  has  gained  a  world-wide  renown. 

The  routine  of  Ipsden  House  resembled  clock-work. 
Prayers  at  8  a.m.  in  the  drawing-room,  when  the  servants 
introduced  a  deal  form  for  themselves,  the  housekeeper 
and  butler,  as  became  those  in  authority,  being  permitted 
the  luxury  of  a  chair.  The  Squire  was  his  own  chaplain, 
and  one  rule  he  enforced  rigorously  and  dogmatically,  viz., 
that  on  no  account,  and  at  no  hour  of  the  day,  should  any 
book,  sacred  or  secular,  be  laid  on  the  top  of  the  Bible. 
The  method  of  elocution  adopted  at  these  diurnal  domes- 
tic functions  would  be  styled  nowadays  histrionic,  if  not 
melodramatic.     Enough  that  it  was  sincere. 


Charles  Headers  Mother.  23 

Prayers  over,  all  promptly  adjourned  to  the  breakfast- 
room,  where  breakfast  followed  in  due  course.  The  Ips- 
den  hot-rolls  were  subsequently  introduced  at  Cuddesden 
Palace,  Bishop  Wilberforce,  from  his  earlier  recollections 
of  Ipsden,  having  begged  for  the  receipt.  One  can  but 
wish  that  these  simple  luxuries  of  the  past  had  not  shared 
the  fate  of  the  species  dodo,  for  they  are  now  but  memo- 
ries. Luncheon  was  punctually  at  one,  dinner  at  half -past 
five,  tea  about  eight ;  then  chess  and  music  till  ten,  w^hen 
family  vespers  ended  the  day.  Of  course  everybody  was 
dressed  for  dinner — the  ladies  with  bare  necks  and  arms, 
the  gentlemen  in  blue  coats  with  brass  buttons.  This 
arrangement  was  de  rigueiir  even  when  the  house  was 
comparatively  empty,  a  social  condition  of  infrequent  oc- 
currence, guests,  as  a  rule,  succeeding  each  other  by  re- 
lays. Everybody  ate  much  and  drank  little,  the  wines 
being  madeira  and  port,  except  the  late  Sir  John  Chandos 
Reade,  who,  as  head  of  the  family,  was  privileged  to  in- 
vert the  process.  Beer  was  an  almost  unknown  beverage, 
the  entire  family  preferring  wine,  with  the  solitary  excep- 
tion of  Charles,  who  was  a  stern  water-drinker  until  quite 
late  in  life. 

Environed  by  this  Arcadian,  indeed  primeval  simplicity, 
Mrs.  Reade  lived  and  did  her  work  in  the  world  industri- 
ously and  happily.  She  was  at  once  domestic  and  social, 
with  an  aptitude  for  cultivating  the  great  of  the  earth, 
more  particularly  when  they  were  of  her  own  cult.  Lord 
Thurlow  was  godfather  to  her  eldest  son ;  Barrington, 
the  Prince-Bishop  of  Durham,  who  resided  at  Mongewell 
Park,  three  miles  off,  became  sponsor  for  her  fourth ; 
and  Warren  Hastings  for  her  youngest  daughter.  "  My 
dearest  Lady  Effingham"  was  the  friend  of  her  lifetime, 
until  that  lady  in  her  eighth  decade  ran  away  with  a 


24  Memoir  of  Charles  Beade. 

scripture-reader,  when  the  note  changed,  and  she  was 
styled  "  That  horrid  old  woman."  On  her,  however,  and 
others  of  the  same  type  she  wasted  reams  of  paper  and 
gallons  of  ink,  the  major  part  of  the  forenoon  being  de- 
voted to  correspondence.  It  is,  perhaps,  superfluous  to 
hint  that  a  lady  gifted  with  such  exceptional  mental 
qualities,  though  a  devoted  mother,  was  by  no  means  am- 
bitious of  being  bored  by  her  children — indeed,  she  sent 
the  sons  off  to  school  as  early  as  possible,  and  after  that 
to  India.  Her  influence  with  the  Board  of  Directors  of 
the  Old  East  India  Company  was  virtually  paramount. 
She  obtained  no  less  than  three  writerships,  i.  e.,  appoint- 
ments in  the  Civil  Service,  together  with  two  cavalry 
cadetships  for  her  sons,  and  an  infantry  cadetship  for  a 
connection  by  marriage.  Five  out  of  seven  boys  were 
thus  expeditiously  launched  to  sink  or  swim;  and  as  re- 
gards the  daughters,  the  two  elder  were  wedded  to  men 
of  her  choice,  while  one  remained  single,  to  be  the  com- 
panion of  her  fourteen  years  of  widowhood. 

Although,  therefore,  this  woman  of  idiosyncrasies  con- 
signed her  five  firet-born  sons  to  the  India  where  she  was 
bom,  and  where  her  father  had  attained  a  certain  emi- 
nence, her  youngest  seemed  from  his  cradle  to  have  a 
singular  attraction  for  her.  Charles  was  her  pet.  "When 
her  other  children  came  from  school  or  college  she  loved 
them  for  a  day,  tolerated  them  for  a  week,  and  then  de- 
voutly wished  they  were  out  of  the  house.  Charles,  how- 
ever, was  ever  welcome,  missed  when  absent,  and  adored 
when  present.  For  his  mother  was  as  warm-hearted  as 
capricious,  and  it  may  be  that  her  quick  perception  de- 
tected in  him  the  evidences  of  consummate  brain-power, 
the  quality  she  coveted  for  all.  Yet  she  had  not  one 
stupid  child — indeed,  her  whole  family  was  distinctly  tal- 


Charles  Eeade^s  Mother.  25 

ented.  Her  two  elder  sons  shone  at  Rugby  and  Hailey- 
bury,  her  tlurd  at  Charterhouse.  Her  fourth,  the  father 
of  Winwood,  the  African  explorer,  was  a  brilliant  racon- 
teur; her  fifth  became  acting  Lieutenant-Governor  of  the 
northwest  provinces,  during  the  mutiny,  and  not  only 
saved  Agra,  but,  better  still,  Havelock  from  collapse,  by 
supplying  him  at  a  critical  moment  with  funds.  It  was 
the  fortune  of  her  sixth  to  be  engaged  in  several  leading 
cases  with  no  small  tclat,  and  Charles  was  himself  the  last 
but  not  least;  while  of  her  daughters,  Julia,  the  wife  of 
the  martyr,  Captain  Allen  Gardiner,  R.N.,  has  left  a 
memory  alike  sweet  and  fragrant.  She  was  as  handsome 
as  her  father,  and  as  brilliant  as  her  mother.  Nearly 
forty  years  after  this  lady's  decease  a  nephew  of  hers  was 
greeted  by  an  ardent  Romanist  Avith,  "  What,  are  you  a 
nephew  of  Julia  Reade  ?"  as  though  the  fact  alone  spoke 
volumes;  the  speaker  adding,  "For  grace,  for  beauty,  and 
for  brains,  I  have  never  known  any  woman  to  be  her 
equal."  Nor  was  that  the  language  of  exaggeration.  It 
was  not,  therefore,  beeause  her  other  children  were  dull- 
ards or  behemoths  that  Mrs.  Reade  concentrated  her  ma- 
ternal affection  on  Charles.  There  was  a  bond  of  brain 
between  mother  and  son,  and  withal  a  decided  similarity 
of  disposition.  He  entertained  from  first  to  last  a  firm 
belief  in  the  majesty  of  his  mother's  mental  powers,  and 
loved  her,  we  may  be  sure,  none  the  less  for  being  in 
every  fibre  a  lady.  It  was  to  her  that  he  was  indebted 
for  those  habits  of  untiring  industry  which,  even  when  ho 
appeared  to  be  a  man  of  leisure,  redeemed  his  hours  of 
seeming  idleness  fi'om  inanity,  and  afterwards  converted 
his  luxurious  residence  at  Albert  Gate  into  a  workshop. 
His  mother's  brain  was  never  passive.  The  secret  of  her 
social  success  lay  in  the  fact  of  her  having  so  much  to 
2 


26  Memoir  of  Charles  Reads. 

say  on  every  conceivable  topic.  She  bad  read,  sbc  bad 
thought,  she  had  discussed  the  problems  of  the  day,  its 
literature,  its  theology  and  politics,  within  and  "without 
the  family  circle,  and  her  mind  rapidly  crystallized  ideas. 
Bishops  and  learned  doctors  listened  to  her  with  genuine 
admiration,  for  to  the  charm  of  originality  she  added  that 
of  research.  She  was  a  firm  believer  in  woman's  wit;  her 
earnestness  was  so  intense  that  she  could  hardly  tolerate 
badinage,  or  fun  of  any  sort.  At  dinner  she  would  seem 
almost  surprised  at  the  effect  produced  by  her  husband's 
sparkling  sallies,  and  was  once  heard  to  whisper  an  irate 
aside,  that  he  was  getting  to  be  a  very  frivolous  old  man. 
To  her  everything  was  so  overwhelmingly  serious,  that 
although  a  smile  never  left  her  features — except  on  very 
rare  occasions — she  had  no  time  for  laughter,  still  less  for 
fooling.  There  was  nothing  little  about  her,  and  to  her 
littleness  was  tantamount  to  vulgarity.  To  say  that  she 
impressed  all  with  whom  she  came  in  contact  is  to  render 
her  but  scant  justice,  for  she  attracted  most  especially  the 
highest  minds,  such  as  George  Grote,  Samuel  Wilberforce, 
G.  S.  Faber,  and  his  splendid  nephew,  .founder  of  the 
Brompton  Oratory  and  poet.  That,  however,  was  not 
all;  her  servants  held  her  in  the  highest  estimation.  To 
the  poor  people  on  the  Ipsden  estate  she  played  the  part 
of  Lady  Bountiful,  feeding  them  royally,  and  physicking 
their  vitals  experimentally.  This  spirit  of  charity  she 
certainly  transmitted  to  her  son  Charles,  together,  un- 
luckily, with  her  faculty  for  being  very  easily  humbugged. 
That  her  sons  were  keenly  appreciative  of  the  worth  of 
this  mother  of  theirs  may  be  inferred  from  the  simple  fact 
of  one  among  their  number  having  jotted  down,  during 
a  period  of  forty  years,  several  hundred  of  her  wisest 
aphorisms.     It  would   obviously  be  impossible   to  give 


Charles  Beade's  Mother.  27 

more  than  a  sample  of  her  epigrammatic  tongue  and  pen. 
Suffice  it  that  the  following  were  unpremeditated,  ut- 
tered in  the  course  of  common  conversation,  or  scribbled 
citrrente  calamo,  but  rescued  from  oblivion  by  the  affec- 
tion of  a  son  who  treasured  his  mothei-'s  wit  as  sacred. 
She  shall  speak  for  herself  in  the  excerpts  culled  from  a 
small  MS.  volume  in  her  son's  handwriting,  almost  at 
random: 

"  Life  teems  with  contrarieties,  and  the  wise  man  seeks 
rather  to  discipline  his  mind  than  to  alter  his  circum- 
stances." 

"Mr.  Hastings  is  surprisingly  well  and  young.  At 
eighty  skipping  like  a  fawn,  and  not  old-looking.  But  at 
eighty  I  prefer  age." 

"  How  difficult  it  is  for  a  mother  to  win  the  love  of  her 
sons  when  she  has  to  fight  against  their  inclinations!  But 
in  this,  as  in  other  cases,  the  line  of  duty  is  the  line  for  me 
to  take." 

"  Oh,  for  bark  and  steel  for  the  mind,  instead  of  senti- 
ment and  spermaceti!" 

"  I  left  my  Charles  in  his  solitude  of  College  with  an 
aching  heart.     It  is  my  children  that  glue  me  to  life." 

"I  do  not  much  fancy  Daniel  "Wilson  as  Bishop  (of 
Calcutta).  He  is  a  child  of  God,  but  barely  a  gentleman 
in  manners." 

"  I  am  better  for  advice,  but  in  our  grand  climacteric 
we  must  expect  the  pins  to  loosen." 

"  There  are  some  persons  whose  detestation  of  you  is 
desirable.     Their  praise  would  be  censure." 

"  Female  authors  are  springing  up  like  mushrooms.  I 
begin  to  think  tapestry  was  a  wise  employment." 

"  My  friend  Samuel  Wilberf orce  will  be  a  bishop.  He 
eschews  the   doctrine   and   disloyalty  of  Newman,  but 


28  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

seems  inclined  to  shut  up  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  from 
all  but  Episcopalians." 

"  Love  makes  sad  havoc  with  some  people,  but  will  not 
hurt  those  who  can  change  easily  from  fair  to  brown." 

"The  wisest  man  is  he  who  never  anticipates,  but  is 
daily  thankful  for  the  good  he  enjoys." 

"A  bouncing  girl  with  the  mind  of  a  sparrow,  and  a 
beauty  with  all  her  wit  in  her  heels,  is  heaviness  to 
me." 

"  My  early  education,  early  tastes,  early  friends  make 
me  utterly  at  issue  with  all  vulgarity  and  imitative  gen- 
tility." 

"  Commonplace  people  are  always  on  the  subject  of  ser- 
vants or  dress,  or  newspaper  information.  I  had  rather  be 
closeted  for  aye  with  my  own  thoughts  than  have  freedom 
with  theirs." 

"  I  have  been  reading  Macaulay's  Essays.  That  on  Mil- 
ton so  much  admired  is  execrable  in  principle,  and  not  re- 
deemed by  antithetical  eloquence.  I  like  the  sparkling, 
easy  style  of  Horace  Walpole,  and  his  terse  criticisms  bet- 
ter than  this  new-fangled  style  of  our  reviews." 

"I  have  read  a  few  works  of  fiction.  The  low  wit  of 
Dickens  I  abominate,  but  except  'Nicholas  Kickleby.' 
Bulwer  I  do  not  read,  but  James,  with  his  love-ladies,  is 
interesting.  And  love  is  not  dead,  nor  imagination  either, 
in  your  old  mother."     She  was  seventy-one. 

"One  does  not  wish  to  see  sentiment  oozing  out  at 
every  pore;  but  there  is  a  bright  look  and  a  beaming  eye 
that  sets  all  life  within  afloat,  and  that  pleases.  Profes- 
sion of  all  sorts  is  an  emetic — but  ice  chills." 

"As  to  the  apostolic  succession,  drive  the  nail  too 
hard,  and  you  will  I'alher  destroy  than  build  up  the  Church 
of  England." 


Charles  Readers  MotJier.  29 

"  Nothing  annoys  me  so  mucli  as  the  loss  of  the  Eng- 
lish language  in  the  literature  of  the  day.  There  is  Car- 
lyle,  with  his  abominable  German  phraseology — conceited 
divines,  with  their  Frenchified  sentences  and  compound 
words  that  make  me  throw  the  book  down.  What  think 
you  of  Montgomery  ending  an  octavo  volume  with '  How  ?' 
I  like  pithy  and  epigrammatic  sentences,  a  little  antithesis 
also,  but  only  a  little." 

"  To  be  ever  on  the  stilts  is  a  mistake  in  these  days, 
when  the  head  is  often  compelled  to  take  the  place  of  the 
tail." 

"  Catechisms  make  a  parrot." 

"  Haydn  gave  me  his  picture  on  my  marriage.  On  the 
reverse  was  Solon's  maxim,  *  Reckon  not  on  Happiness.' " 

"  Lady  Bathurst  said  of  my  father,  in  the  time  of  the 
Hastings  controversy,  *  Here  comes  Scott,  his  eyes  full  of 
fire  and  his  pockets  full  of  pamphlets.' "  This  was  apro- 
pos of  her  father's  daughter,  evidently. 

To  these  may  be  added  a  sentiment  of  the  canonical 
variety  which  reflects  the  mind  of  the  high  Tory,  high 
Calvinist,  and  high-bred  lady.  "No  one  should  go  be- 
yond his  own  grounds  on  Sunday,  except  to  church."  Un- 
luckily we  have  not  all  of  us  grounds  to  go  beyond. 

This  clever  lady,  as  will  be  noted,  was  in  essence  a  pro- 
verbial philosopher,  often  unconsciously  funny,  but  al- 
ways burningly  earnest.  Paragraphs  of  hers  read  like  ex- 
tracts from  Charles  Reade's  earlier  novels;  e.  g.,  "Living 
in  London,"  she  writes,  "  what  is  it  ?  Cliques  fashionable, 
cliques  political,  cliques  religious,  and  clubs  the  excep- 
tions." Mixed,  however,  with  so  much  that  was  prag- 
matical and  didactic,  with  much  of  Jane  Austen's  ideas 
about  sense,  sentiment,  and  sensibility,  and  with  the  con- 
sequent glorification  of  the  commonplace,  was  a  current  of 


80  Memoir  of  Charles  Beade. 

tenderness,  rarely  rising  to  the  surface,  perhaps  too  often 
obscured.  It  existed,  however,  and  when  in  evidence 
charmed  by  its  simplicity.  Thus,  after  the  death  of  her 
squire,  she  wrote,  "My  children  are  too  old  to  be  loving; 
I  miss  the  pressure  of  my  dear  husband's  hand."  And 
during  the  last  week  of  her  life,  at  the  age  of  ninety,  she 
wrote  to  her  son  Edward  a  farewell,  concluding  with  the 
really  poetic  paradox,  "  The  mother  never  dies  !" 
That  is  indeed  a  beautiful  truth! 


CHAPTER  H. 

BABYHOOD. 

Chaelks  Reade  was  born  at  Ipsden  House  on  the  8th 
of  June,  1814.  The  youngest  of  eleven,  he  entered  a 
home  well  filled  with  boys  and  girls,  of  whom  the  elder 
were  almost  young  men  and  women.  India,  however,  so 
soon  absorbed  the  three  seniors  that  he  was  barely  able  to 
recall  them,  and  at  a  family  gathering  in  his  later  years 
openly  avowed  himself  unable  to  contra-distinguish  the 
portrait  of  his  brother  George  from  that  of  his  brother 
Heniy.  His  eldest  sister,  moreover,  was  shortly  after 
married  to  an  ex-fellow  of  St.  John's,  and  her  union  with 
Mr.,  afterwards  Canon,  Woodrooffe  virtually  took  her  out 
of  the  family.  The  little  Charley,  therefore,  became 
from  his  cradle  the  especial  charge  of  his  sister  Julia. 
Seldom  has  it  fallen  to  the  lot  of  a  child  to  be  blessed 
with  such  a  nurse,  and  in  after-years  he  never  mentioned 
her  name  except  with  some  prefix  of  endearment.  His 
brothers  joined  in  the  general  idolatry  of  the  fair-haired, 
rosy-cheeked  urchin  with  the  large,  thoughtful  eyes,  and  a 
mouth  that  already  showed  signs  of  caprice  and  wilful- 
ness. Had  there  been  less  of  wisdom  and  sound  sense 
blended  with  such  pronounced  favoritism,  the  boy  would 
have  developed,  even  in  the  nursery,  into  an  enfant  terrible  ; 
but  sister  Julia  was  too  high-minded  to  spoil  him  for  the 
sake  of  selfish  gratification,  and  his  mother  had  a  habit  of 
loving  her  children  with  an  iron  love.     She  was  honey  one 


82  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

moment  and  vinegar  the  next ;  now  indulgent  up  to  a 
certain  limit,  and  now,  as  she  phrased  it,  tiring  and  teas- 
ing the  children.  Charles,  doubtless,  came  in  for  his  full 
share  of  her  caressing  and  his  half  share  of  her  tantalizing, 
but  the  latter  could  not  have  affected  him  much.  If  he 
was  naughty  some  one  else  got  the  blame  ;  if  he  gave  vent 
to  those  momentary  ebullitions  of  temper,  which  after- 
wards induced  him  to  style  the  most  eminent  of  dramatic 
critics  "  A  criticaster  and  a  shrimp,"  his  amiable  sister  was 
sure  to  be  at  hand  to  exorcise  the  evil  spirit  by  the  sheer 
force  of  sweetness  ;  if  the  young  Turk  essayed  to  bully 
his  seniors  and  got  compound  interest  in  return,  Julia  was 
ready  to  ward  off  the  Nemesis  his  self-assertion  had  evoked, 
and  pour  oil  on  the  troubled  waters.  He  was  a  spoiled 
child  if  ever  there  was  one,  and  would  have  been  made 
totally  indisciplined  but  for  a  fortunate  accident. 

The  nurseries  in  Ipsden  House  were  situate  on  the  first 
floor  of  the  old  wing,  that  portion  of  the  mansion  whose 
date  is  uncertain,  but  is  believed  to  antedate  1536.  Three 
rooms  and  a  passage  were  shut  off  from  the  rest  of  the 
house  by  a  swing  door,  and  it  may  be  supposed  that,  hav- 
ing been  devoted  to  the  use  of  young  children  from  1797, 
when  John  Thurlow,  the  eldest  son,  was  bora,  to  1818,  a 
stretch  of  twenty-one  years,  they  had  got  out  of  repair. 
Hence,  when  Charles  was  but  four  years  of  age,  it  oc- 
curred to  the  Squire  to  furbish  up  this  wing,  but  the  proc- 
ess of  papering,  painting,  and  whitewashing  would  nec- 
essarily take  time.  Not  only  so,  but  the  rest  of  Ipsden 
House  needed  renovation,  and  therefore  a  temporary  ex- 
odus for  the  whole  family  seemed  inevitable.  They  man- 
aged things  differently  in  those  days.  In  this  year  of 
grace,  if  a  country  gentleman  had  a  mind  to  repair  his 
house,  he  would  either  rent  another  in  the  shires  or  in 


Babyhood. .  33 

town,  or  perhaps  at  Brighton.  In  1818  locomotion  was 
laborious,  and  the  sort  of  undertaking  to  be  dreaded ;  so  it 
was  determined  for  the  nonce  to  disperse  the  family,  and, 
as  a  preliminary",  son  Charles,  though  very  young  indeed 
for  so  grave  an  experiment,  was  breeched,  and  thus  tech- 
nically, according  to  the  ideas  of  the  period,  converted 
into  a  schoolboy.  No  doubt  the  poor  little  fellow  parted 
with  his  frocks  painfully,  and  resented  the  honor  thus 
thrust  upon  him,  but  he  must  ere  this  have  learned  that, 
however  much  mother  and  sister  might  pet  him,  the  rule 
of  Ipsden  was  rather  Stoic  than  Epicurean.  The  Squire 
with  his  hounds  and  his  gun  was  no  milksop.  Mrs.  Reade 
indulged  her  own  tastes  and  caprices  ad  libitum,  but  strin- 
gently insisted  upon  every  one  else  practising  the  virtue 
of  self-denial.  Ipsden  is  probably  the  coldest  house  in 
Europe,  yet  fires  were  all  but  unknown  luxuries  in  its  bed- 
rooms; the  halls  and  principal  staircase  were  icy,  and  even 
in  the  living  rooms  the  beechen  logs,  with  their  cheerful 
blaze,  emitted  a  minimum  of  heat.  Ladies  with  bare  necks 
and  arms  shivered  in  the  dining-room  and  clustered  round 
the  hearth-rug  in  the  drawing-room.  There  was,  in  fact, 
with  a  superb  cuisine  of  the  genuine  and  unostentatious 
kind,  with  abundance  of  civilization  and  punctilio,  a  sin- 
gular absence  of  real  comfort,  and  Master  Charles,  like  his 
sisters  and  brothers,  learned  from  his  cradle  to  rough  it. 
The  breeches,  however,  at  the  tender  age  of  four,  were  a 
severer  discipline  than  had  been  meted  out  to  his  brethren. 
Their  symbolism  was  not  remote.  These  integuments 
said  that,  being  now  by  virtue  of  his  breeching  a  boy,  he 
must  put  off  childish  things.  They  warned  him  solemnly 
that  the  time  had  come  to  buckle  to,  and  learn  his  regular 
lessons  at  stated  hours,  in  lieu  of  that  easy,  desultory  in- 
struction which  hitherto  had  passed  muster.  But  above 
2* 


84  Memoir  of  Charles  Iteade. 

all,  he  soon  discovered,  to  his  bitter  grief,  that  these  de- 
testable breeks  were  destined  to  separate  him  from  his  dear 
mother,  his  yet  dearer  sister  Julia,  and  all  the  glorious 
liberty  of  the  nursery,  for  the  stern  decree  had  gone  forth 
that  he,  the  tiny  brat  of  four  years,  should  accompany  his 
bigger  brother  to  school. 

The  truth  is,  that  his  mother,  much  as  she  loved  the 
baby  Charles,  loved  her  own  whims  and  fancies  more,  and 
had  resolved  to  spend  the  interregnum  during  the  furbish- 
ment  of  Ipsden  House  in  the  gay  but  serious  city  of  Bath. 
Mr.  Fry,  her  evangelist,  had  pitched  his  tent  there.  They 
could  drive  into  Somersetshire  from  Ipsden  with  their  own 
horses  by  breaking  the  journey  at  Faringdon  or  Cirences- 
ter, and  thus  escape  the  horror  of  coaching.  Bath  was  at 
its  zenith,  and  it  is  just  possible  that,  after  twenty-two 
years  of  Ipsden,  this  good  lady  may  have  begun  to  hanker 
after  the  fleshpots  of  fashion,  whereof  she  had  partaken 
so  extensively  in  her  maiden  days.  Bath,  therefore,  was 
the  venue,  and  Mrs.  Reade  had  no  notion  of  Bath  in  com- 
bination with  a  legion  of  brats.  To  her  mind  the  glories 
of  King  Bladud's  city  were  incompatible  with  the  respon- 
sibilities of  maternity,  so  she  eliminated  those  irksome  ad- 
juncts jpTO  tern,  and  packed  off  her  nurseryful  to  school, 
while  the  rest  were  despatched  on  a  round  of  visits  to 
relations  and  friends — and  thus  Mrs.  Reade  and  her  hus- 
band were  enabled  to  descend  in  state  upon  Bath  without 
encumbrances. 

The  school  selected  for  sons  Charley  and  Compton  had 
been  started  by  a  Mrs.  Bradley  at  Reading.  This  lady 
must  have  been  gifted  with  considerable  force  of  charac- 
ter, for  her  ambition  seems  to  have  been  both  to  fulfil  her 
duties  as  wife  and  mother,  and  also  to  keep  the  domestic 
pot  aboil  by  her  own  exertions.     Her  husband,  who  is  de- 


Babyhood.  36 

scribed  as  a  dapper  little  fellow  dressed  d  la  militaire, 
acted  the  part  of  drill-sergeant  to  the  pupils,  but  was  con- 
tent to  allow  his  wife  to  earn  his  and  her  bread.  This, 
by-the-bye,  was  no  such  easy  feat.  Mrs.  Bradley  hapj)ened 
to  be  nursing  her  first-bom,  and  that  interesting  occupa- 
tion must  have  interfered  not  a  little  with  her  work  as  an 
informer  of  the  youthful  mind.  Infants,  even  when  of 
the  highest  moral  calibre,  are  apt  to  give  tongue  in  season 
and  out  of  season,  and  that  which  Mrs.  Bradley  had  intro- 
duced to  this  terrestrial  scene  was  no  less  fractious  than 
the  rest.  It  afforded,  in  short,  a  substantial  guarantee 
against  that  over-pressure  which  is  said  to  be  the  vice  of 
Board  Schools.  The  Bradley  establishment  must  have 
been  more  of  a  creche  than  a  school. 

The  big  landau  with  the  seventeen-hand  bays  —  the 
Squire  plumed  himself  on  his  horse-flesh — took  the  two 
boys  over  to  Reading  by  noon  one  fine  day,  and  after  a 
formal  welcome  from  Mrs.  Bradley,  and  a  view-halloa 
from  the  suckling  cherub,  at  one  o'clock  the  boys  sat  down 
to  dinner.  The  two  Reades  were  hungry  enough  after 
their  ten-mile  drive,  and  awaited  with  no  common  interest 
the  entrance  of  the  viands.  Grace  was  said,  and  then  a 
huge  rice  pudding  entered  an  appearance.  Now  rice  pud- 
ding at  best  is  rather  homely  fare,  and  it  came  in  the  shape 
of  an  unwelcome  surprise.  Compton  accepted  his  helping 
as  a  matter  of  duty,  but  a  glance  at  his  brother  Charley's 
visage  warned  him  of  an  impending  storm.  The  little  fel- 
low looked  quite  all  the  indignation  he  felt,  and  when  a 
plateful  was  placed  in  front  of  him,  clutched  his  spoon, 
filled  it  with  the  stodgy  stuff,  lifted  it  to  his  mouth,  and 
then  dropped  it  with  a  crash. 

Mrs.  Bradley,  who  had  been  dispensing  this  edible, 
glanced  inquiringly  across  at  her  new  pupil  to  behold 


86  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

him  push  away  plate,  spoon,  and  all  in  a  torrent  of  tem- 
per, while  in  a  tone  of  absolute  ill-usage  he  ejaculated, 
"  Where's  ray  meat  ?" 

This  query  of  course  demanded  explanations  which 
were  duly  forthcoming,  and  the  future  author  learned  that 
whereas  in  the  county  of  Oxford  and  parish  of  Ipsden  the 
custom  prevailed  of  eating  meat  first  and  pudding  second, 
in  the  county  of  Berks  and  borough  of  Reading  they  in- 
verted the  process.  On  being  further  assured  that  those 
pupils  only  who  ate  their  pudding  were  permitted  the  lux- 
ury of  fibrine,  Master  Charles  took  the  hint  promptly,  and 
by  sedulous  devotion  to  rice  pudding  earned  a  full  com- 
mons of  meat.  This  singular  hoxdeverscment  of  the  items 
of  the  ordinary  menu  was  not  peculiar  to  Mrs.  Bradley's 
establishment,  nor  to  that  of  Mr.  Squeers.  It  obtained  in 
very  many  schools,  the  idea  being  to  save  the  butcher's 
bill,  and  keep  the  boys  in  health.  Dickens  by  a  stroke  of 
the  pen  abrogated  it,  but  before  "  Nicholas  Nickleby  "  set 
the  world  laughing,  parents  had  got  to  regard  the  arrange- 
ment as  of  the  nature  of  a  swindle,  and  there  was  sub- 
sequently much  indignation  at  Ipsden  against  Madame 
Bradley's  petty  economy  when  the  story  of  little  Charley's 
first  dinner  at  school  was  narrated. 

The  rehabilitation  of  Ipsden  House  took  exactly  three 
months  to  complete,  and  at  the  expiration  of  that  period 
Charles  with  his  elder  brother  returned  home.  They  found 
the  nursery  converted  into  a  schoolroom,  and  that  their 
regime  in  the  future  would  be  that  of  schoolboys,  not  of 
children.  Shortly  after  this  Compton  was  sent  to  join  his 
brother  Edward  at  a  private  tutor's  near  Oxford,  and 
Charles  again  became  the  sole  charge  of  his  sister  Julia. 
She  washed  him,  dressed  him,  taught  and  played  with 
him,  nor  would  she  permit  any  one  to  usurp  her  place. 


Babyhood.  37 

l!f ever  was  there  so  devoted  a  sister,  uever  a  boy  more  at- 
tached to  a  beautiful,  spirituelle,  and  accomplished  woman. 
Clever  and  brilliant  herself,  she  made  learning  not  only 
easy  to  him,  but  pleasant.  He  must  have  been  largely 
influenced  by  her  grace  and  esprit.  It  was  indeed  a  rare 
privilege  to  have  been  trained  even  in  early  youth  by  one 
who,  in  virtue  of  extraordinary  qualities,  was  enabled  to 
command  universal  admiration,  being  herself,  notwith- 
standing, entirely  unconscious  of  it.  Bright,  animated, 
vivacious,  yet  never  lacking  dignity,  she  taught  him-  to 
appreciate  not  merely  wisdom,  but  wit,  and  to  abhor  me- 
diocrity. The  debt  he  owed  to  her  was  incalculable  ; 
indeed,  her  social  influence  throughout  a  brief  but  beauti- 
ful life  was  as  fertilizing  of  good  as  the  sunshine.  During 
the  three  years  when  he  was  her  pupil,  Charles  developed 
surprisingly  every  quality  of  the  heart  and  brain.  At  six 
he  could  play  a  fine  game  of  chess,  and  at  seven  had  ac- 
quired the  rudiments  of  a  sound  English  education,  plus 
that  love  of  literature  which  he  retained  throughout  his 
life,  and  which,  in  a  degree,  proved  the  basis  of  his  success. 
It  was  the  kind  and  good  Julia  who  made  him  a  devourer 
of  books,  and  it  had  been  well  for  him  had  she  continued 
her  work  of  tuition  and  supervision  for  the  entire  period 
of  his  boyhood.  A  sister's  affection,  however  ardent  and 
impulsive  though  it  may  be,  is  a  transferable  quality — as 
the  little  Charles,  to  his  sorrow,  was  destined  to  discover. 
About  five  miles  from  Ipsden,  subtending  the  river's 
banks,  and  environed  by  parklike  grounds,  stands  Combe 
Lodge,  the  seat  then  of  the  Gardiners.  The  founder  of 
that  family  was  a  merchant  or  broker,  who  came  down  to 
Oxfordshire  at  the  latter  end  of  the  last  century,  and  pur- 
chased extensive  estates  in  the  parishes  of  Whitchurch 
and  Goring.    The  younger  son  of  Mr.  Gardiner  of  Combe, 


S8  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

in  1821,  was  a  certain  Allen  Francis  Gardiner,  a  naval  offi- 
cer of  strong  religious  sentiments.  There  was,  by-the-bye, 
a  religious  vein  in  the  Gardiner  family,  for  some  of  Captain 
Gardiner's  nearest  relatives  afterwards  became  disciples  of 
the  great  Irving.  A-wooing  journeyed  to  Ipsden  the  gal- 
lant captain,  and  his  suit  prospered.  He  was  evangelical, 
so  was  Julia  Reade.  His  brain  was  filled  with  romantic 
visions  of  apostleship,  so  was  hers.  He  had  been  a  very 
pretty  boy,  and  as  a  midshipman  had  played  girls'  parts 
in  theatricals  at  Portsmouth  with  some  ^lat,  and  it  is 
possible  his  future  wife  was  able  to  trace  the  vestiges  of 
his  youthful  good  looks.  But  his  features,  which  singu- 
larly resembled  those  of  Lord  Nelson,  were  bronzed,  and 
his  manner  cold  and  stern,  though  doubtless  not  to  her. 
From  a  worldly  point  of  view  the  match  was  hardly  a 
good  one,  for  Captain  Gardiner  was  a  younger  son,  and 
Julia  had  a  plethora  of  suitors.  It  was,  however,  essen- 
tially a  love-match,  and  both  the  Squire  and  his  wife  were 
well  pleased  that  their  daughter  had  chosen  a  man  of  such 
natural  nobility  of  character. 

The  wedding  came  off  at  Ipsden  Church.  Captain  Gar- 
diner's sister  had  just  bestowed  her  hand  on  Mr.  Hunt,  of 
Buckhurst,  a  more  than  opulent  squarson,  among  the  issue 
of  that  marriage  being  George  Ward  Hunt,  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer,  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty,  and  Post- 
master-General under  Lords  Derby  and  Beaconsfield. 
There  were  Gardiners  and  Hunts  in  abundance  at  the  wed- 
ding, and,  indeed,  all  the  country  -  side.  Sixty  carriages 
followed  the  bride  and  bridegroom  to  church  ;  and,  bear- 
ing in  mind  that  there  were  no  railways,  this  fact  speaks 
volumes  for  the  esteem  in  which  the  happy  couple  were 
held.  Every  one  in  that  region  knew  what  a  fine  fellow 
Allen  Gardiner  was,  most  had  heard  of  the  grace  and 


Babyhood.  39 

beauty  of  Julia  Reade.  So  they  all  mustered  in  force  to 
do  them  honor  and  wish  them  joy,  little  dreaming,  by-the- 
bye,  that  so  glorious  a  morning  would  presage  a  brief  day 
for  the  one  and  a  tragic  termination  for  the  other. 

Before  going  to  church  the  guests  assembled  at  Ipsden 
House,  and  one  can  well  imagine  the  picture  of  the  tall, 
handsome  Squire,  perhaps  more  regretful  than  overjoyed, 
with  his  blue  coat  and  buff  waistcoat,  as  he  nervously 
took  out  his  watch,  said  time  was  up,  and  demanded,  sotto 
voce,  "  Why  the  bride  had  not  entered  an  appearance  ?" 
Sister  Ellinor  was  despatched  from  the  drawing-room  to 
hurry  down  Miss  Julia,  but  she  returned  with  a  puzzled 
face  to  say  that  the  bride  was  not  in  her  chamber,  and 
could  not  be  found.  A  curious  smile  of  awkwardness 
passed  round,  and  the  company  began  to  think  of  the  old 
oak  chest  of  the  "  Mistletoe  Bough."  Other  messengers  were 
sent  in  search,  but  still  with  the  same  result,  till  the  Squire 
began  to  fume,  and  his  wife  herself  ascended  hastily  the 
broad  oak  stairs,  and  in  high  dudgeon  roamed  from  room 
to  room.  At  last  the  musical  note  of  her  daughter  Julia's 
voice  caught  her  ear,  and  gave  her  the  cue.  With  all 
speed  she  tripped  down  the  passage  leading  to  the  night 
nursery,  to  behold  the  bride,  orange-blossoms  and  all,  hard 
at  work  dressing  the  youngest  of  her  brothers. 

"What,  mamma,"  cried  she,  reproachfully,  "do  you 
think  I  would  go  to  church  without  my  little  Charley  ?" 

They  had  determined  that  this  infinitesimal  element 
should  be  omitted  from  the  ceremony,  but  Julia  would  not 
have  it  so.  Her  pupil  should  have  the  last  of  her  life  and 
love  till  the  moment  when  she  pledged  both  to  her  noble 
husband. 

And  so  Charles  went  with  the  rest  of  the  big  company, 
and  no  doubt,  with  his  large,  pensive  eyes,  took  in  the 


40  Memoir  of  Charles  Beade. 

whole  scene.  It  was  fraught,  poor  boy,  with  ill-omen  for 
his  happiness,  for  so  long  as  Julia  was  at  home  to  play 
mother  to  him,Ips(lcn  House  was  able  to  tolerate  his  pres- 
ence. It  chanced,  however,  that  soon  after  she  disap- 
peared, leaving  a  gap  the  Squire  always  declared  could 
never  be  filled,  his  cousin,  Emma  Scott -Waring,  a  little 
tom-boy  of  a  girl,  came  on  a  visit,  and  the  pair  took  upon 
themselves  not  merely  to  rob  the  hen-roost,  but  further  to 
pelt  each  other  with  the  new-laid  eggs.  The  girl,  after 
detection,  was  severely  punished  for  the  sin  of  having  en- 
ticed Master  Charles  from  the  path  of  rectitude,  whereas, 
in  truth,  it  was  altogether  the  other  way.  His  mother 
would  not  hear  of  her  dear  and  spoiled  boy  being  subject- 
ed to  corporal  chastisement,  so  the  Squii'c,  in  order  to  in- 
sure its  abundant  application,  packed  him  off  sharp  to 
join  his  elder  brother  Compton  at  Rose  Hill,  Iffley,  near 
Oxford.  The  dominie  who  was  their  schoolmaster  had 
already  beaten  his  three  elder  brothers  metaphorically  into 
jellies,  and  the  same  horrible  fate  was  reserved  for  Master 
Charles. 


CHAPTER  III. 

UNDER    THEKOD. 

Tt  was  popularly  supposed  at  the  beginning  of  the  cen- 
tury that  knowledge  was  introduced  to  the  human  brain 
by  dint  of  hard  knocks  on  every  part  of  the  person.  A 
boy,  from  that  point  of  view,  could  scarcely  be  too  se- 
verely cudgelled  or  too  constantly  flogged.  Men  said 
that  the  cat-o'-nine-tails  won  for  us  both  Trafalgar  and 
Waterloo,  and  that  to  make  a  boy  a  scholar  and  a  gentle- 
man copious  flagellation  was  essential.  Dr.  Valpy  earned 
the  sobriquet  of  "  Vapuly  "  by  the  horrible  tortures  he  in- 
flicted on  his  pupils,  yet  was  generally  considered,  before 
Arnold,  the  model  Head  Master.  But  Valpy  himself  was 
mild  and  merciful  in  contrast  with  the  pedagogue  to  whom 
the  Squire  of  Ipsden  intrusted  his  four  younger  boys. 

The  Squire  perhaps  may  have  been  less  blameworthy 
than  his  wife.  A  Rugbeian  himself,  John  Reade  not  un- 
naturally sent  his  two  elder  sons  to  Rugby,  while  the  third 
became  a  Carthusian.  Yet,  somehow,  neither  Rugby  nor 
the  Charterhouse  quite  satisfied  Mr.  Reade,  who  began  to 
question  whether  a  public  -  school  education  might  not  be 
more  costly  than  advantageous.  He  therefore  favored  the 
notion  of  private  tuition  for  his  younger  sons,  but  the  ac- 
tual selection  of  a  private  tutor  he  appears  to  have  left  to 
his  wife.  Now  Mrs.  Reade,  like  many  clever  women,  had 
strong  prejudices.  Her  belief  in  the  clergy  of  her  own 
way  of  thinking  was  simply  amazing,  and  she  almost  in- 


42  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

vested  them  with  the  attribute  of  infallibility.  History 
has  failed  to  record  who  recommended  the  Rev.  Mr.  Slat- 
ter,  of  Rose  Hill,  Iffley,  as  tutor  of  her  boys.  The  cleric, 
whoever  he  was,  who  advised  a  mother  to  confide  in  so 
inhuman  a  master  must  have  been  gifted  with  a  curious 
conscience.  Charles  Dickens's  Squeers  has  always  been 
accepted  as  a  broad  caricature,  but  this  same  character  in 
some  respects,  though  not  in  all,  was  highly  colored  in  the 
person  of  Mr.  Slatter.  Life  under  his  roof  was  more  than 
purgatory — it  was  a  positive  inferno.  His  system  has  ac- 
curately been  described  as  one  of  all  punishment  and  no 
reward,  and  the  wonder  was  that  he  preserved  till  his 
death  a  steady  average  of  subjects  to  experiment  upon. 
Nothing  but  the  generally  diffused  superstition  concern- 
ing the  necessity  of  never  sparing  the  rod  could  have  kept 
him  going,  for  severity  increased  with  his  advancing 
years;  and  though  at  thirty-five  he  was  only  a  harsh  mar- 
tinet, at  sixty-five  he  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  the  phys- 
ical sufferings  of  his  pupils. 

When  her  husband  opened  his  school,  Mrs.  Slatter,  who 
was  a  gentle,  motherly  sort  of  woman,  often  pleaded  for 
the  unfortunate  youngsters  who  had  fallen  into  disgrace. 
But  as  years  passed  on  she  became  inured  to  the  wails  of 
the  sufferers,  or  perchance  discovered  that  her  interfer- 
ence was  of  no  avail.  Once  in  every  half-year  each  pupil 
was  invited  to  spend  Sunday  evening  with  this  good 
woman  in  her  sanctum.  On  these  occasions  apple-tart  was 
the  style  of  provender;  but  before  deglutition  the  guest 
was  required  to  repeat  the  names  of  the  Oxford  Colleges. 
It  was  a  singular  species  of  entertainment,  but  keenly  ap- 
preciated by  the  boys,  as  affording  a  sort  of  contrast  to 
the  horrors  of  the  schoolroom.  The  school,  in  short,  was 
repressive  and  crushing.    Its  master  had  acquired  a  cer- 


Under  the  Rod.  43 

tain  reputation  as  a  strict  disciplinarian,  but  in  truth  his 
system  of  terrorizing  stupefied  his  pupils.  Executions 
went  on  perpetually  throughout  school-hours,  and  it  was 
a  rare  occurrence  for  any  boy  to  escape  corporal  punish- 
ment, on  a  larger  or  lesser  scale,  between  breakfast  and 
dinner,  or  dinner  and  tea.  On  a  high  platform,  covered 
with  red  baize,  in  the  angle  of  the  room,  posed  Mr.  Slat- 
ter.  The  boys  on  forms  sat  round  the  green  baize-cov- 
ered table,  a  stool  at  the  angle  of  the  table  nearest  the 
door  serving  as  the  vehicle  for  one  species  of  execution, 
and  a  very  painful  one  indeed.  Each  pupil  was  summoned 
in  turn,  his  lesson  assigned  him  to  learn  by  heart,  and  in 
due  time  he  was  called  up  to  repeat  it.  Probably  he  got 
through  the  first  three  lines  correctly,  then  followed  some 
slight  lapse  of  memory.  "Hold  out  your  hand!"  was  the 
prompt  command,  and  down  came  the  cane  irrespective 
of  chilblains  and  bruises.  A  small  child,  of  course,  would 
yell,  whereupon  the  punishment  was  repeated  for  the  fresh 
offence  of  crying.  In  the  course  of  a  single  lesson  a  dozen 
cuts  would  be  showered  on  the  hands  or  arms;  while,  if 
the  boy  had  omitted  to  learn  even  the  first  few  lines,  the 
stool  above  referred  to  was  requisitioned,  the  child  was 
flung  across  it,  his  back  bared,  and  blows  rained  upon  him. 
After  this  infliction  a  sitting  posture  was  excruciating 
torture,  for  the  skin  was  abraded  and  the  cuticle  severely 
bruised. 

This,  however,  was  not  supposed  to  be  the  ne  plus  uUra 
of  the  inquisitor's  art.  In  the  event  of  any  grave  offence 
being  committed  the  offender  was  invited  to  "  come  into 
my  study,  sir,"  a  small  room  across  the  hall,  and  then  all 
ears  were  attention  to  count  the  number  of  strokes  in- 
flicted on  the  bare  flesh  by  the  birch  rod.  The  shrieks  of 
the  sufferer  after  each  stroke  were  duly  timed,  but  not 


44  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

seldom  obscured  by  "wild  and  frantic  cries  for  mercy — an 
appeal  utterly  fruitless. 

Of  course  the  boys  learned  nothing,  or  next  door  to  noth- 
ing. The  Latin  grammar  was  written  in  Latin,  and  com- 
mitted to  memory  without  reference  to  any  meaning  the 
words  might  have.  Mr.  Slatter  never  explained,  or  taught. 
He  sat  on  his  throne  to  hear  lessons  said.  If  the  task  was 
repeated  accurately,  the  pupil  escaped  the  cane.  That  was 
his  negative  reward.  If  he  repeated  ninety-nine  words 
only  out  of  a  hundred  he  got  caned  for  the  odd  one.  And 
this  was  what  Mr.  Slatter  facetiously  termed  "grounding  " 
in  Latin! 

It  was  a  somewhat  singular  fact  that  the  smaller  boys 
at  Rose  Hill  suffered  the  most.  When  a  sturdy  youth 
kicked  Mr.  Slatter's  shins,  though  vendetta  followed 
promptly,  he  self-guarded  his  corpus  against  future  vivi- 
section. That  same  sturdy  boy  is  now  an  Admiral  in  Her 
Majesty's  fleet,  and  if  he  peruses  these  lines  may  recall  to 
memory  how  pluckily  he  stuck  to  the  wall,  kicked  with  all 
his  might,  and  was  only  dragged  to  the  stool  of  torture 
after  a  stiff  resistance,  wherein  he  did  not  altogether  come 
off  worst.  But  at  the  time  he  was  not  a  junior,  and  in 
fact  had  passed  through  a  long  ordeal  of  suffering  as  a 
small  boy  before  he  mustered  up  courage  to  resist.  It 
would  have  been  well  had  his  example  been  followed  by 
all.  The  writer,  after  a  lapse  of  forty-five  years,  sees  as 
clearly  as  though  it  were  to-day,  a  little  child  of  six,  a 
widow's  son  and  pet,  who  had  been  most  tenderly  nur- 
tured, and  was  sent  from  Oxford  to  Iffley  for  afternoon 
lessons  only.  He  sees  this  child  caned  till  his  hysterical 
crying  could  not  cease,  and  his  whole  body  was  swollen 
with  the  blows.  In  after-years  he  heard  that  same  child 
as  a  man,  and  a  dying  man,  curse  the  name  of  Slatter, 


Under  the  Rod.  45 

though  that  merciless  torturer  who  had  rendered  his  child- 
hood a  hell  lay  under  the  sod  of  liHey  churchyard. 

It  is  possible  that  the  Squire  might  have  hesitated  be- 
fore consigning  his  son  Charles  to  this  harsh  disciplinarian 
but  for  an  unlucky  circumstance.  His  three  elder  sons 
needed  no  severe  curb.  But  the  fourth  son,  William  Har- 
rington, was  endowed  by  nature  with  a  turbulent  spirit. 
Though  physically  the  little  one  of  the  family,  his  high 
spirit  was  only  equalled  by  an  inordinate  love  of  mischief, 
and  his  cuticle  was  so  tough,  his  muscles  so  hard,  that  it 
needed  something  akin  to  a  surgical  operation  to  make 
him  feel  at  all.  This  rough-and-tumble  youth  appears 
somewhat  to  have  startled  Mr,  Slatter,  who  had  been  ac- 
customed to  operate  on  sensitive  subjects,  and  was  puzzled 
proportionately  by  a  phenomenal  insensibility  to  pain.  On 
arriving  at  Rose  Hill  Master  William  Barrington  dined 
with  the  rest  in  total  silence — the  rule  of  the  school.  He 
ate  his  meat  without  observation;  but  when  the  spotted 
dog  made  its  appearance,  the  new  boy  exclaimed  inconti- 
nently, "I  say,  Mr.  Slatter,  the  plums  in  this  pudding  ai'c 
calling  out  to  each  other,  '  Here  be  I,  Jack ;  where  be 
you?'"  The  school  tittered  in  the  subdued  fashion  of 
convicts  with  the  lash  always  impending,  whereupon  Mr. 
Slatter  summoned  Master  William  Barrington  to  "stand 
out;"  and,  laying  down  his  fork  and  spoon,  clutched  the 
cane,  and  began  to  play  upon  the  new  boy  vigorously. 
To  his  chagrin,  however,  the  blows  made  no  impression, 
indeed  the  victim  did  not  wince,  but  smiled  as  at  a  su- 
preme jest.  At  last,  however,  he  observed,  in  a  tone  of 
mild  reproach,  suggestive  of  the  possibility  of  overdoing 
even  the  best  of  jokes,  *'  I  say,  if  you  keep  on  that  much 
longer  you'll  hurt  me!"  Needless  to  add,  that  however 
severely  he  might  be  thrashed,  this  same  Master  William 


46  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

Barrington  was  much  too  proud  to  carry  home  a  grumble; 
indeed  in  his  case  it  would  have  been  fruitless,  for  the 
Squire  would  have  replied  that  in  beating  so  fractious  a 
boy  the  master  was  only  doing  his  duty. 

With  William  Barrington  there  went  to  Mr.  Slatter's 
Edward  Anderdon,  the  fifth  son,  whose  powers  of  applica- 
tion were  abnormal,  and  who  escaped  the  cane  simply  be- 
cause he  always  mastered  his  lessons.  Later  on  Compton, 
the  sixth  son,  joined  his  brothers,  and  on  him  descended 
the  full  force  of  the  pedagogue's  right  arm.  Pride,  how- 
ever, kept  his  tongue  silent.  His  elder  brothers  had  not 
complained,  and  had  he  protested  against  the  severity  to 
which  he  was  subjected  he  would  have  been  gibbeted  in 
the  family  circle  as  an  idler.  He  omitted,  therefore,  to 
warn  his  mother  against  Mr,  Slatter,  and  the  little  Charles, 
not  yet  eight  years  of  age,  became  one  of  his  victims. 

Compton  had  been  his  younger  brother's  companion  at 
Mrs.  Bradley's,  and  was  ready  to  fight  his  battle  at  Rose 
Hill.  But  what  can  a  small  boy  of  ten  do  in  opposition 
to  a  master,  and  that  master  a  bully  ?  It  was  the  practice 
of  this  most  peculiar  of  pedagogues  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  new  pupil  within  a  few  hours  of  his  entry  into 
the  school  by  vigorous  chastisement.  There  was  no  hypoc- 
risy about  Mr.  Slatter.  He  did  not  pretend  to  be  his 
pupils'  friend,  and  whale  their  bodies  for  the  good  of  their 
souls.  Nothing  of  the  kind.  He  made  it  clear  as  crystal 
that  you  had  come  there  to  be  thrashed,  possibly  for  your 
own  good,  certainly  for  his  gratification.  He  therefore  wel- 
comed Charles  Reade  as  a  new  subject,  and  a  very  prom- 
ising one,  inasmuch  as,  unlike  his  pachydermatous  broth- 
er, William  Barrington,  he  evinced  an  acute  sense  of  pain. 
Day  after  day  the  child's  flesh  was  lacerated  by  the  cruel 
cane,  until  at  last  his  brother  Compton,  who  had  borne  his 


Under  the  Hod.  47 

own  floggings  with  fortitude,  but  could  not  so  indifferently 
endure  the  spectacle  of  Charles's  torment,  up  and  spoke. 

The  occasion  was  Sunday,  a  day  which  might  well  have 
been  treated  as  an  armistice.  Charles,  just  before  the 
boys  were  marched  off  in  double  file  to  Ifiley  Church,  had 
perpetrated  some  peccadillo.  The  church  bells  were  ring- 
ing, and  there  was  no  time  for  an  execution,  so  Mr.  Slatter 
in  remarking  on  this  fact  added,  "  Never  mind,  Charles, 
you  shall  be  flogged  after  divine  service."  Master  Comp- 
ton  heard,  and  his  heart  swelled  beneath  his  jacket  with 
indignation.  Was  it  not  enough  to  beat  the  little  fellow? 
— must  mental  be  added  to  bodily  agony  ?  Not  if  a  word 
would  stop  it;  and  he  resolved  that,  come  what  might,  and 
the  odds  were  that  interference  would  entail  condign  pun- 
ishment, that  word  should  not  be  left  unsaid. 

Accordingly,  after  the  function  was  over,  and  the  boys 
were  trooping  sadly  back  to  Rose  Hill,  he  said,  "  Sir,  I 
wish  to  speak  to  you.  Do  you  think  it  fair  to  keep  my 
brother  in  a  state  of  suspense  all  through  church  time  ? 
You  know  how  nervous  he  is,  already  he  has  suffered  ten- 
fold more  than  any  flogging." 

Whether  it  was  the  point,  or  the  audacity  of  this  speech, 
or  a  secret  dread  lest  a  report  to  his  disadvantage  might 
travel  as  far  as  Ipsden,  certain  it  is  that  Mr.  Slatter  let 
Charles  off  his  flogging.  Compton's  remonstrance,  more- 
over, had  an  ulterior  effect,  for  though  his  own  back  suf- 
fered as  before,  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  remarking  that 
Mr.  Slatter  slightly  abated  his  severity  towards  Charles. 
Existence,  however,  even  under  such  mitigated  conditions 
was  simply  penal.  There  was  seldom  or  never  cricket,  no 
football  or  hockey,  no  fishing  or  boating  at  Rose  Hill. 
The  boys  bathed  in  Iffley  lasher  during  the  summer 
months,  and  were  allowed  to  garden  in  the  spring,  but 


48  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

there  were  no  games.  Two  and  two,  with  Mr.  Slatter  to 
the  rear,  the  miserable  children  marched  along  the  Iffley 
road  for  about  an  hour  a  day.  That  was  the  extent  of 
their  exercise.  Boyhood  could  not  have  been  more  sys- 
tematically dwarfed,  and  the  marvel  is  that  the  pupils  did 
not  emerge  from  this  peine  forte  et  dur  in  a  condition  of 
abject  idiotcy. 

The  subjoined  are  three  letters  from  the  small  boy  at 
Rose  Hill  to  the  family  circle.  It  is  superfluous  to  hint 
that  inasmuch  as  Mr.  Slatter  supervised  all  his  pupil's  cor- 
respondence no  allusion  to  a  bleeding  and  bruised  cuticle 
was  feasible.  The  first,  of  which  a  fac-simile  is  given  on 
the  following  page,  is  to  his  mother. 

The  next  seems  addressed  to  Julia  and  Ellinor.  It  runs 
thus: 

"  My  DEAn  Sisters, — I  hope  you  and  Edward  arc  quite  well.  I  arrived 
at  Mr.  Slattcr's  house  on  the  1st,  and  at  his  study  on  the  2d,  wlicre  I  have 
fagged  with  unremitting  industry  till  this  day.  Edward  will  soon  go  to 
India  I  fear,  but  I  wish  he  would  just  come  and  visit  me  before  he  sails. 
I  want  him  to  get,  alias  obtain,  us  a  whole  holiday,  which  is  very  desirable 
here,  by  the  way.  And  if  he  cannot  come,  you  and  mamma  must  come 
and  beseech  Mr.  Slatter  until  he  giveth  one  unto  us.  Edward  gave  me  a 
certain  book  called  '  The  Son  of  a  Genius,'  which  I  forgot  to  bring  with 
xne.  That  also  you  must  bring  with  '  e.'  Mamma's  ruler  has  greatly  as- 
sisted me  in  this  letter.  I  have  got  a  Cornu  Ammonis,  or  petrified  snake, 
for  you,  which  you  had  better  come  and  possess.  Tell  mamma  that  quire 
of  paper  did  not  come  here.  1  have  got  a  very  bad  pen.  Shew  this  letter 
to  mamma  and  Julia.  Write  to  me  any  questions  about  *  *  *  Keep  this  let- 
ter till  I  come  back.     Keep  every  other  letter  of  mine  till  then. 

"  Your  affectionate  Brother." 

The  asterisks  probably  refer  to  Mr.  Slatter,  who,  incon- 
sistently enough,  though  he  perused  every  line  sent  home 
by  his  pupils,  did  not  read  the  letters  they  received.  The 
appeal  for  a  holiday  is  rather  piteous — a  respite  he  might 


J  curru     fuxjxlup'   -io    VYijHyrrn/    <poto_,  ou/v 
v~CUMJbu>ru-  conmrmx/rocjej    cro  l-ixjb  zz.-</yuA  'ru-Tie/yo    <J 

Jl^  -/o   yrujy  jiTUKt/uUiy   J  a/yyv  j-Zi^  ixxtdU/n^  Ccu-aru,, 
V-oJ-JncLn^o   trrduuz6  uJwiv    dcL/CuAAf'  cLoxc6   vJLe/rv  — 
oj{Axmv.        u/j\mj    tyu/    zcom/  fo   olCO   ctJ-  njcmw^    curvdj 
njU£jL/iH/    /Aey  dii/nvC/  jh^cmy    y/}iLn,    oCuMAuu      cADTV, 


60  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

have  termed  it  from  the  diurnal  cane.  The  "e"  for  you 
was  doubtless  a  bit  of  schoolboy  fun  at  the  expense  of 
Mrs.  Slatter.  In  the  next  letter  he  drops  the  same  sort  of 
hint  in  a  broader  fashion.  Probably  he  had  imitated,  for 
the  amusement  of  his  sisters,  that  worthy  woman's  Doric 
eccentricities. 

The  following  bears  the  date  February  17,  but  the  year 
is  omitted.  It  was  in  all  likelihood  1825.  The  handwrit- 
ing is  legible. 

"  Mv  DEAU  Sisters, — I  am  glad  you  liked  my  fine  letter,  and  hope  you 
will  lilie  this  better.  I  hope  this — lay  a  stress — letter  will  also  be  better 
received  by  you  than  mamma's,  which  will  reach  her  on  the  same  day  as 
this  does  you.  Since  I  have  had  more  time  for  the  better  formation  of 
my  letter,  having  finished  this  tedious  discourse,  I  enter  upon  narratives. 
There  was  a  certain  word  in  mamma's  letter  which  I  could  not  make  out. 
It  was  as  follows :  '  I  am  very  anxious  to  know  wiiether  you  are  likely — ' 
something  or  other  ?  Please  ask  mamma  what  it  was,  and  when  you  write 
to  me,  which  I  hope  will  be  soon,  mention  it.  Edward  will  most  likely  be 
detained  by  the  contrary  winds.  Write  to  me  soon,  and  tell  me  how  he 
does,  and  all  about  him.  I  am  afraid  he  is  '  gawn  awa  frae  Ipsden.'  I 
pity  his  taste,  but  think  he  has  as  many  advantages  as  a  young  man  could 
expect.  I  have  such  excellent  eggs,  the  yelk  {sic)  luke-warmed  and  the 
white  raw.  Mrs.  Slatter  won't  do  them  any  better,  though  I  frequently 
ask  'f r.  I  have  often  wished  myself  at  home  to  bid  E.  good-bye.  My  pa- 
per costs  me  more  than  you  think.  It  cost  a  half-penny  a  sheet.  I  have 
written  four  letters,  two  to  you,  one  to  Mamma,  and  one  to  Compton. 
Give  my  sincerest,  faithful  love  to  Edward  and  Mamma,  etc.,  etc.,  and 
write  soon,  I  beseech  you,  to  your  affectionate  brother, 

"Charles  Eeade. 

"I  hope  to  find  Julia  at  home  when  I  come,  which  won't  be  so  over- 
soon,  by  the  way.  I  hoped  to  see  Allen  and  Julia  at  this  very  house.  You 
never  knew  me  to  write  such  a  letter  before.  I  beg  mamma's  pardon  for 
writing  to  you  before  her." 

The  effect  of  Mr.  Slatter's  cruelty  on  a  child  of  a  sensi- 
tive temperament,  yet  naturally  virile,  may  have  been  less 


Under  the  Bod.  51 

absolutely  injurious  than  might  easily  be  presupposed. 
Charles  Reade,  be  it  remembered,  was  not  a  London  boy, 
reared  in  an  enervating  atmosphere  among  comforts  that 
might  appropriately  be  termed  luxuries.  He  had  been 
petted,  spoiled,  and  as  regards  brains,  forced,  but  in  other 
respects  his  home  training  had  been  fairly  robust.  At 
Ipsden  there  were  not  alone  ladies  exceptionally  cultured, 
who  doted  on  a  clever  child,  but  a  hunting  and  shooting 
Squire  also,  with  his  cohort  of  elder  sons,  as  fond  of  the 
harriers  and  horses,  the  woods  and  the  warren,  as  was  their 
sire.  Hence,  although  Charles  both  suffered  and  winced 
under  Mr.  Slatter's  rod,  that  terrible  weapon  toughened 
his  cuticle  and  taught  him  to  think  less  of  pain.  It  does 
not  appear  to  have  utterly  stupefied  him,  as  was  the  case 
generally;  indeed,  in  after-life  he  was  fond  of  pointing  to 
the  singular  paradox,  that  whereas  at  the  cane's  point  he 
had  learned  like  a  parrot  his  grammars,  totally  without 
reference  to  any  possible  meaning  the  words  might  possess, 
afterwards  when  he  came  to  be  taught  by  a  capable  tutor, 
and  Latin  was  made  intelligible,  he  was  amazed  to  discov- 
er the  amount  of  rudimentary  philology  wherewith  his  mind 
was  stored.  If  you  can  imagine  a  Turk  with  no  knowl- 
edge whatever  of  English  being  compelled  to  learn  by 
heart  the  entirety  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  and  then  acquir- 
ing the  English  tongue,  and  with  it  an  appreciation  of  our 
immortal  dramatist,  you  will  realize  exactly  the  mental 
process  through  which  Charles  Reade's  mind  was  made  to 
pass.  The  grammars  placed  in  his  hand  by  Mr.  Slatter 
were  written  in  Latin — one  might  say  with  truth  in  canine 
Latin — and  they  had  to  be  repeated  from  end  to  end  verba- 
tim, the  learner  not  being  informed  as  to  any  meaning  the 
rules  or  examples  might  have.  Not  only  so,  but  such  ridic- 
ulous doggerel  as  the  ^^ Propria  quce  maribus  "  and  "^s  in 


62  Memoir  of  Charles  Iteade. 

presenti  "  would  have  been  a  useless  memoria  technica  for 
advanced  pupils,  while  for  children  just  fresh  from  the 
nursery  they  were  sheer  hocus-pocus.  Dr.  Valpy  of  Read- 
ing, who  served  as  an  exalted  apology  for  Mr.  Slatter's 
severity,  was  said  to  have  publicly  birched  before  the 
whole  school  one  of  his  own  children  for  inability  to  ac- 
quire this  same  hateful  jargon,  and  the  horrible  agonies 
they  caused  the  wretched  boys  of  Rose  Hill  can  hardly  be 
imagined,  still  less  described.  The  system  was  one  which, 
apai*t  from  its  savagery,  aimed  at  improving  the  memory, 
and  it  is  a  fact  that  gibberish  learned  by  rote  adheres  to 
the  brain;  nevertheless,  oddly  enough,  Mr.  Slatter's  pupils 
had  exceptionally  bad  memories,  except  for  the  rubbish  he 
beat  into  their  heads.  Certainly  Charles  Reade  was  his 
most  brilliant  pupil,  and  yet  in  after-years,  as  will  appear, 
he  all  but  lost  his  fellowship  owing  to  the  difficulty  he  ex- 
perienced in  committing  to  memory  the  Thirty-nine  Arti- 
cles in  Latin.  Mr.  Slatter,  as  the  cant  phrase  of  the  day 
went,  grounded  him,  i.e.,  forced  him  by  constant  torture  to 
acquire  what  must  have  appeared  to  his  young  mind  lunat- 
ical  gibberish,  and  it  was  only  when  he  had  subsequently 
passed  through  a  course  of  bond  fide  teaching  that  he 
awoke  to  the  fact  of  the  same  unintelligible  gibberish  be- 
ing rudimentary  philology  expressed  in  dog  Latin.  A  boy 
of  exceptional  talent,  if  he  had  been  placed  under  a  con- 
scientious and  able  tutor,  could  with  facility  have  mastered 
the  Latin  grammar  in  twelve  months.  At  Rose  Hill  in 
five  years  he  had  learned  it,  but  was  perfectly  ignorant  of 
what  he  had  learned.  What  graver  satire  could  be  written 
on  the  perverse  plan  of  digesting  first  and  comprehending 
afterwards?  It  finds  an  appropriate  parallel  in  the  fervid 
piety  of  the  Irish  Catholics,  who  sing  hymns  and  litanies  in 
Latin  as  devotional  exercises,  without  the  faintest  concep- 


Under  the  Rod.  63 

tion  of  what  they  mean.  It  was  the  Slatterian  system 
which  caused  the  mediajval  priest  to  sing  "  mumpsimus  " 
instead  of  "  sumpsimus,"  and  when  found  fault  with  to 
retort  that  it  was  all  the  same. 

In  justice  to  Mr.  Slatter  it  must  be  added  that  he  fed 
his  pupils  satisfactorily.  Breakfast,  it  is  true,  was  not  ap- 
petizing, the  provender  being  thick  slices  of  stale  bread 
scraped  over  with  imperceptible  butter.  Dinner,  however, 
was  excellent.  Mr.  Slatter  grew  his  own  mutton,  and  it 
was  a  specialty.  The  culinary  arrangements  left  little  to 
be  desired,  and  everything  was  scrupulously  clean.  Each 
boy,  however,  was  expected  to  bring  to  Rose  Hill  the 
stomach  of  one  of  Horace's  reapers,  and  to  devour  every- 
thing that  was  put  before  him.  It  was  a  sin  of  the  first 
magnitude  to  leave  a  fragment  of  fat  or  gristle  on  the 
edge  of  your  plate,  and  the  boy  who  did  so  rendered  him- 
self liable  to  subsequent  flagellation. 

Now  to  most  young  children  fat  of  all  kinds  superin- 
duces nausea,  and  therefore  the  custom  of  the  school  was 
for  boys  not  provided  with  the  stomachs  of  ostriches  to 
slip  what  pieces  of  fat  they  could  not  swallow  into  their 
pocket-handkerchiefs,  the  result  being  that  their  jacket  and 
trousers  pockets  were  in  a  condition  too  filthy  to  be  thought 
of  before  the  end  of  the  half-year.  But  for  this  petty 
tyranny  and  a  jejune  breakfast  -  table,  the  dietary  of  Rose 
Hill  would  have  merited  our  warm  encomium.  Under 
its  influence  a  boy  like  Charles  Reade,  who  was  all  the 
worse  both  mentally  and  physically  for  the  incessant  flog- 
ging, contrived  to  thrive  and  grow.  Birch  and  cane  may 
have  retarded  the  natural  development  of  his  brain,  but 
the  mutton  made  his  muscles,  and  when  he  left  Rose  Hill 
for  good  it  was  as  an  exceptionally  fine,  erect,  picturesque 
boy,  whose  physique  was  almost  phenomenal,  but  whose 


64  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

education  had  yet  to  commence.  What  little  he  knew 
had  been  imparted  to  him  in  the  nursery  by  his  sister 
Julia;  while  as  regards  positive  knowledge,  its  acquisi- 
tion had  been  interrupted  for  five  long  years,  and  he  had 
thus  to  make  a  fresh  start  heavily  handicapped.  Rose 
Hill  had  been  a  palpable  error.  Nevertheless,  incredible 
although  it  may  appear,  Mrs.  Reade  was  so  enamoured  of 
its  more  than  Spartan  system  as  to  have  consigned  a  neph- 
ew to  the  tender  mercies  of  Mr.  Slatter,  and,  later  on,  a 
grandson.  It  was  part  of  her  theory  of  education  that  a 
boy  could  not  be  too  accurately  well  beaten^  and  that  the 
weaker  and  more  tender  and  more  sensitive  he  was,  the 
more  excruciating  ought  to  be  his  agonies.  If  only  this 
good  lady  could  in  her  proper  person  have  suffered  the 
experiences  narrated  so  graphically  by  the  author  of 
"Vice  Vers^,"  her  theory  might  have  undergone  some 
modification.  A  five  minutes'  flogging,  scientifically  inflict- 
ed by  so  consummate  a  vivisector  as  Mr.  Slatter, would  have 
dissipated  those  fallacious  ideas  which  caused  her  to  con- 
demn her  own  flesh  and  blood  to  the  torment  of  an  inferno. 
The  precise  reason  which  induced  her  to  remove,  after 
five  years'  penal  servitude,  her  favorite  son  Charles  from 
Mr.  Slatter's  jurisdiction  can  only  be  surmised.  Possibly 
she  may  have  found  out  that  he  was  learning  nothing,  and 
withal  in  considerable  danger  of  being  brutalized.  Pos- 
sibly the  warnings  of  her  son  Compton  as  to  the  maleficent 
effects  of  Rose  Hill  discipline  may  have  influenced  her. 
It  is  even  within  the  bounds  of  probability  that  son  Charles 
himself  may  have  whispered  in  her  ear  that  a  little  in- 
struction would  be  more  profitable  than  much  beating. 
Anyhow,  he  was  sent  to  join  his  elder  brother  at  Mr. 
Heam's,  a  clergyman  residing  at  Staines;  but  the  reminis- 
cences of  Rose  Hill  were  perhaps  the  most  unpleasant  of 
his  life. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"at  STAINES." 

School-life  may  be  a  happy  epoch,  if  not  the  happiest, 
iu  man's  mortal  existence,  or  it  may  be  much  the  reverse 
: — a  term  of  years  to  be  held  in  bitter  remembrance.  Sc 
far  as  Charles  Reade's  experience  went,  he  had  reason  to 
recoil  from  such  a  memory  as  that  of  Rose  Hill.  Noth- 
ing save  innate  qualities  of  the  highest  order  could  have 
preserved  him  from  becoming  under  Mr.  Slatter's  system 
both  dwarfed  and  dulled.  It  was  a  happy  circumstance 
indeed  that  he  quitted  that  scene  of  vivisection,  and  ceased 
himself  to  be  experimented  upon  at  a  comparatively  early 
age.  His  brain  and  temperament  had  still  the  power  of 
recovery,  and  it  needed  only  reasonable  liberty  and  intelli- 
gent tuition  to  mature  both.  His  elder  brothers  had  been 
taught  by  Mr.  Slatter's  rod  to  revolt  from  classical  study, 
and  to  this  bathos  Charles  might  have  reached  but  for  his 
providential  escape  from  the  domination  of  that  ogre. 
Two  years  more  of  Rose  Hill,  and  it  would  be  safe  to  pre- 
dict that  he  would  never  have  been  Fellow  of  Magdalen, 
author,  and  world-renowned  celebrity.  His  very  brain 
must  have  been  flattened  into  mediocrity  by  tyranny  and 
terrorizing.  Read  or  witness  the  scenes  of  brutality  en- 
acted within  the  four  walls  of  the  jail  in  the  drama-novel 
"  It  is  Never  too  Late  to  Mend,"  and  you  will  find  there 
reproduced  his  own  child-life  under  Mr.  Slatter.  "I  am 
so  veiy  tired !"  is  the  refrain  that  must  often  and  often 


66  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

have  been  wrung  from  his  boyish  lips  as  the  cruel  cane  de- 
scended on  unhealed  wounds,  and  made  him  hate  the  very 
breath  he  drew.  That  raw-boned  iron-faced  man  was  the 
merciless  warder  of  his  drama,  and  the  little  boy  done  to 
death  himself.  True,  the  hard  master  stopped  short  of 
manslaughter ;  but  at  Rose  Hill  there  was  no  Mr.  Eden 
to  come  to  the  rescue  as  Deus  ex  machinCi.  The  boys 
groaned  to  the  tune  of  "  I  am  so  very  tired,"  till  the  order 
of  release  arrived,  and  they  were  set  free. 

The  change  from  Rose  Hill  to  Staines  can  only  be  com- 
pared to  one  from  a  diet  of  gall  to  one  of  champagne. 
Compton,  who  had  preceded  his  younger  brother  to  the 
charming  Berkshire  town,  made  such  rapid  progress  in 
every  respect  under  the  tuition  of  Mr.  Ilearn,  who  com- 
bined tutorial  work  with  the  cure  of  the  parish,  as  virtual- 
ly to  have  paved  the  way  for  Charles.  Mrs,  Reade  had  a 
keen,  observant  eye  of  her  own,  eccentric  although  she  was 
in  many  respects;  and  she  could  not  have  failed  to  con- 
trast the  vivacity  of  the  boy  in  clover  with  the  down-trod- 
den weariness  of  the  boy  whose  hours  were  a  burden  to 
him.  Be  that  as  it  may,  after  Compton  had  been  for  a 
term  under  Mr.  Ilearn,  Charles  was  removed  from  Mr. 
Slatter's  and  sent  to  join  his  brother. 

What  a  metamorphosis  it  was  !  Mr.  Heam,  who  ap- 
pears to  have  been  a  gentleman,  handled  his  pupils  as  such, 
his  object  being  not  to  dragoon,  but  to  develop.  He  soon 
discovered  what  splendid  material  he  had  to  work  upon  in 
Charles,  and  how  it  had  been  cribbed,  coffined,  and  con- 
fined under  a  repressive  and  ill-conditioned  system.  Of 
course  he  had  to  commence  de  novo,  to  explain  and  guide, 
to  revive  what  under  Julia  had  been  an  ardent,  but  was 
now  a  crushed,  love  of  learning,  and  to  try  and  save  the 
wrecks  of  the  years  Mr.  Slatter  had  wasted.    Moreover,  he 


'■''At  StainesP  67 

was  no  martinet.  He  recognized  the  wisdom  of  the  corpus 
sanum  as  dominating  more  or  less  the  mens  sana,  and  in 
consequence  gave  his  pupils  quite  as  much  rope  as  was  at 
all  desirable.  His  plan  was  to  interfere  as  little  as  might 
be  with  their  amusements,  and  to  utilize  to  the  utmost  the 
all-precious  hours  devoted  to  study.  Such  a  master  was 
of  course  liable  to  be  deceived  in  matters  of  trifling  mo- 
ment, for  boys  will  always  take  advantage  of  their  supe- 
rior officer's  laxity;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  brought  out 
all  that  was  in  a  boy.  Himself  a  scliolar,  not  only  in  re- 
gard of  the  dead  languages,  but  in  English  also,  he  pos- 
sessed in  a  high  degree  the  happy  art  of  persuading  his 
pupils  to  think  for  themselves  ;  and  when  the  pathway  of 
knowledge  to  the  beginner  seemed  so  rough  and  rugged 
as  to  be  impassable,  his  sympathetic  mind,  appreciating 
alike  difficulties  and  their  solution,  was  ever  ready  with  as- 
sistance. Charles  Reade  owed  not  a  little  of  his  literary 
facility  to  this  same  humble,  obscure  Curate  of  Staines. 

As  it  happened,  his  fellow-pupils  were  all  boys  of  parts 
and  capacity.  Besides  his  brother  Compton,  for  whose 
ability  he  to  the  last  entertained  no  small  esteem,  there 
were  three  boys  in  every  respect  much  above  the  average 
under  Mr.  Hearn's  roof.  These  Avere  Edwin  James,  after- 
wards Q.C.  and  M.P.,  a  man  whose  forensic  brilliance 
would  have  certainly  secured  him  the  woolsack,  but  for 
an  error  which  quashed  his  career  ;  and  with  him  a  brother 
scarcely  less  clever  ;  and  Mr.  William  Bovill,  subsequent- 
ly of  the  Chancery  bar.  The  Staines  regime  was  by  no 
means  all  Thucydides  and  Cicero,  Homer  and  Horace. 
Torture  not  entering  into  the  educational  theory  of  be- 
nevolent Mr.  Heam,  the  boys  developed  amazing  fortitude 
and  enterprise.  They  soon  got  to  appreciate  the  value  of 
the  old  adage,  "  When  the  cat's  away  the  mice  will  play," 
3* 


68  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

and  inasmuch  as  their  feline  supervisor  M'^as  not  always  in 
evidence,  were  enabled  to  fulfil  the  functions  of  sportive 
mice  almost  without  let  or  hinderance.  There  were  rules, 
of  course,  rules  just  sufficiently  stringent  to  render  their 
breakage  a  luxury  ;  but  Mr.  Hearn  was  so  absent  and  un- 
observant that  it  really  was  by  no  means  easy  to  be  found 
out.  The  boys,  therefore,  or  rather  the  seniors  among 
them,  did  pretty  much  according  to  their  own  sweet  wills, 
appearances /)r<?,/brm(:?  being  kept  up,  and  a  little  dust  oc- 
casionally thrown  in  the  master's  eyes. 

Charles  had  not  been  long  an  alumnus  of  good  Mr. 
Hearn  when  an  opportunity  was  afforded  him  of  "derring 
do,"  and  that  too  of  the  kind  to  test  both  his  pluck  and 
presence  of  mind,  and  also  to  raise  him  to  the  highest  pitch 
of  popularity  with  his  schoolfellows.  He  was  between 
thirteen  and  fourteen  years  of  age,  tall,  symmetrical,  grace- 
ful, and  attractive.  Ipsden,  moreover,  had  taught  him 
agility,  and  he  was  already  beginning  to  display  prowess 
in  cricket.  Such  a  boy  was  well  qualified  to  be  the  hero 
of  an  adventure,  and  he  certainly,  on  the  occasion  to 
which  we  refer,  played  his  part  as  an  actor  to  the  man- 
ner bom. 

His  brother  Compton,  like  the  old  Squire,  was  a  sportsman 
to  the  core.  He  inherited  his  sire's  idolatry  of  the  Ipsden 
woods,  and  at  that  period  of  his  life  would  cheerfully  have 
accepted  the  position  of  gamekeeper  had  it  been  thrust 
upon  him.  He  had,  therefore,  at  Edwin  James's  sugges- 
tion, very  readily  joined  with  him  in  a  sort  of  partnership 
in  sporting  dogs.  Worthy  Mr.  Hearn  knew  nothing  of 
this,  for  the  dogs  were  kept  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off,  and  he 
disdained  espionage,  so  the  boys  fancied  they  were  safe 
from  detection.  A  country  town,  however,  has  eyes  and 
ears  for  everybody's  business,  and  some  malicious  Paul 


*^At  Staines:'  69 

Pry — male  or  female — carried  the  intelligence  to  the  tutor. 
At  once  that  amiable  gentleman,  who  rather  plumed  him- 
self on  a  lavish  copia  verhorum  in  the  pulpit,  and  could 
really  at  times  ascend  to  eloquence,  summoned  his  pupils 
en  masse  before  him,  and  without  asking  questions  pro- 
ceeded to  deliver  a  powerful  oration  against  sporting  dogs, 
and  the  outrageous  wickedness  of  keeping  such  incentives 
to  disobedience  without  magisterial  permission.  In  his 
tatters-torn  passion  it  was  perhaps  rather  obscure  whether, 
according  to  his  notions,  dogs  or  deceit  were  the  greater 
evil.  On  the  whole,  however,  it  became  fairly  apparent 
that,  although  he  hated  deceit  much,  he  hated  dogs  more, 
and  meant,  if  he  could,  to  expel  them  from  the  extremest 
limits  of  that  social  circle  whereof  he  was  the  centre.  Af- 
ter much  exercitation  of  lungs  and  larynx  to  enforce  this 
view,  Mr.  Hearn  at  last  ran  down,  fairly  exhausted  ;  not, 
however,  before,  in  tones  of  stern  reproach  intended  to 
lacerate  the  guilty  conscience,  he  had  urged  his  auditory, 
all  and  singular,  to  step  forward  and  make  a  plenary  con- 
fession. 

A  dead  silence  was  the  only  response  to  this  forcible 
suggestion.  The  confessional  happens  to  be  about  the 
very  last  place  a  puerile  fly  would  permit  himself  to  be  in- 
veigled into  by  a  magisterial  spider.  Ergo,  Mr.  Hearn 
changed  his  tactics. 

"  John  Edwin  James,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  choking 
with  emotion,  "be  good  enough  to  say  what  you  know 
about  these  dogs."  We  may  remark,  parenthetically,  that 
although  Mr.  James  in  after-years  dropped  the  "  John," 
that  was  his  Christian  name,  and  by  it  he  was  known  iu 
Mr.  Heam's  establishment. 

The  embryo  Q.C.  rose  to  the  occasion.  Assuming  au 
air  of  conscious  innocence,  he  boldly  challenged  his  master 


60  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

to  find  the  dogs  if  be  could.  They  were,  so  he  hardily 
affirmed,  an  ignus  fatmcs,  a  mere  figment  of  Mr.  Hearn's 
overwrought  imagination. 

But  the  tutor  was  not  to  be  foiled.  His  informant  had 
not  only  told  the  tale  of  the  pointers  and  setters,  but  also 
where  these  quadrupeds  were  lodged.  A  smile  of  satirical 
significance  flitted  across  his  features  as  he  replied  firmly, 
**  Very  well ;  we  will  soon  see  all  about  that.  Be  good 
enough  to  follow  me,  and  if,  John,  I  detect  you  in  a  false- 
hood, sir — if,  sir,  you  have  added  to  deceit  and  disobedi- 
ence the  sin  of  bare-faced  mendacity,  why — " 

"  All  right !"  was  John  Edwin  James's  jaunty  rejoinder, 
and  the  entire  household  donned  their  headgear  and  sallied 
forth,  to  witness,  as  they  imagined,  the  discomfiture  of  the 
imperturbable  offender. 

Except,  one.  Charles  Reade  was  fagging  away  at  an 
ode  of  Horace,  and  being  naturally  of  a  studious  disposi- 
tion, remained  behind  without  exciting  either  observation 
or  suspicion.  He,  however,  as  will  appear,  had  other 
ideas  in  his  head  beyond  alcaics  and  sapphics.  Edwin 
James  had  passed  him  that  sort  of  wink  which  is  pro- 
verbially as  good  as  a  nod,  and  he  was  ready  for  action, 
while  yet  to  all  appearance  immersed  in  his  "Quum  tu 
Lydia,"  or  "Jam  Satis."  The  situation  was  just  dramatic 
enough  to  be  relished  by  him  dearly,  and  he  entered  into 
it  with  all  the  gusto  of  Guy  Fawkes. 

At  the  back  of  Mr.  Hearn's  residence,  beyond  the  gar- 
den fence,  was  a  very  large  meadow,  its  extreme  limit 
being  a  sort  of  broad  dyke.  Beyond  this  was  situated  the 
cottage  and  yard  of  a  member  of  the  rat-catching  frater- 
nity, one  of  the  Filthy  Lucre  variety,  who  was  handy  for 
any  kind  of  job,  the  more  illegal  the  better  suited  to  his 
tastes.     He  it  was  whom  Mr.  Heam  suspected  of  harbor- 


'^At  Staines:'  61 

ing  the  sporting  dogs  of  Messrs.  Edwin  James — or  John, 
as  he  ought  to  be  described — and  Compton  Reade,  and 
thither  the  good  man  marched  all  his  pupils;  the  principal 
culprit,  with  rare  effrontery,  engaging  him  closely  in  con- 
versation as  they  bestrode  the  turnpike  road  subtending 
his  domicile,  until  they  reached  the  lane  leading  to  the  rat- 
catcher's abode.  Here  again  the  future  Q.C.  exhausted 
all  his  stock  of  volubility,  until  at  last  the  entire  party 
faced  the  rat-catcher's  cottage,  while  their  leader  knocked 
at  the  door  authoritatively. 

"  Where  is  your  husband  ?"  was  the  brisk  demand.  The 
woman  smiled  as  she  informed  Mr.  Hearn  that  he  had  just 
stepped  out  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"  Then,"  said  the  tutor,  "  I  must  trouble  you  to  allow 
me  to  inspect  your  back-yard.  I  am  told  there  are  some 
dogs  there  belonging  to  these  gentlemen." 

"  Dogs  !"  echoed  the  woman  with  uplifted  hands,  as 
though  deprecating,  ab  into  corde,  any  such  enormity. 
"  Oh,  no,  sir  ;  there  are  no  dogs.  But  you  can  see  for 
yourself." 

John  Edwin  James  tittered  sardonically,  a  proceeding 
which  not  a  little  incensed  Mr.  Hearn,  who  strode  forward 
into  the  yard  to  find,  as  the  woman  had  said,  plenty  of 
kennels,  but  no  dogs  in  them. 

That  was  James's  chance.  With  an  air  of  triumph  he 
demanded  where  the  dogs  might  be?  "Are  the  animals 
mythical  or  real,  sir?"  he  asked,  turning  to  his  master, 
while  his  fellow-pupils  joined  gleefully  in  a  chorus  of 
laughter  at  Mr.  Hearn's  discomfiture.  Indeed,  the  impu- 
dent boy  exceeded  the  largest  limits  in  his  banter,  until  at 
last  Mr.  Hearn,  who  guessed  the  trick  he  had  been  served, 
cried  aloud  in  his  wrath,  "John,  John,  I  could  smite  thee 
to  the  earth  !" 


62  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

And  BO  the  party  marched  back  again  to  the  house  in 
solemn  silence,  and  Charles  was  discovered,  as  they  had 
left  him,  cramming  his  Horace,  and  oblivious  of  the  very 
existence  of  such  a  vertebrate  as  the  dog. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  he  who  throughout  had  pulled  the 
wires.  No  sooner  had  they  started  on  this  march  of  dis- 
covery than,  jores^o,  his  long,  agile  legs  carried  him  swiftly 
across  the  meadow,  he  cleai'ed  the  dyke  at  a  bound,  and  in 
less  than  two  minutes  had  explained  the  situation  to  the 
rat-catcher,  packed  him  and  the  dogs  out  of  the  house, 
and,  better  still,  out  of  sight,  and  then  with  all  expedition 
returned  by  the  way  he  came.  Mr.  Hearn,  though  fully 
aware  of  being  tricked,  never  learned  who  it  was  managed 
it  so  cleverly,  and  least  of  all  suspected  Charles  Reade. 

The  episode  was  beneficial  in  two  ways  to  its  perpetrator, 
negatively  and  positively.  Negatively,  because  Mr.  Hearn, 
being  unsuspicious,  continued  to  regard  him  as  his  most 
promising  pupil,  and  lavished  on  him  attention  and  kind- 
ness, both  of  which  were  of  the  greatest  service  in  devel- 
oping a  sensitive  child,  still  smarting  under  previous  ill- 
usage;  and  positively,  because  thereby  Charles  Reade  won 
the  regard  of  the  cock  of  the  school.  Edwin  James  ruled 
the  roost  at  Staines,  his  robust  temperament  exacting  hom- 
age imperiously  from  his  fellows,  and  the  fact  of  his  being 
Charles  Reade's  patron  was  largely  in  favor  of  the  latter's 
comfort  and  peace  of  mind. 

As  an  appropriate  pendant  to  this  chapter  we  give  a 
letter  of  Charles  Reade  to  his  sister  Ellinor,  the  guest  of 
his  brother  Edward,  then  the  tenant  of  Ipsden  House: 

6  Bolton  Row,  Mayfair,  December  27  (1861?) 
"  Mt  dear  Ellen, — I  am  glad  to  hear  you  have  got  safe  to  Ipsden  for 
Christmas.    Keep  a  good  fire  in  your  bedroom,  and  then  perhaps  native 
air  win  do  you  no  harm. 


'^At  /Staines."  63 

"I  do  not  like  to  run  any  risk  of  being  de  trop,  and  I  think  at  this  time 
of  the  year  the  master  of  the  house  should  be  allowed  to  make  his  own 
arrangements. 

"  Mrs.  Heam  is  in  very  poor  circumstances,  and  I  have  sent  her  £5  this 
Christmas-tide.  I  learned  her  situation  from  my  old  schoolfellow  Bovill, 
now  a  Chancery  Barrister.  I  met  her  on  Clapham  Common,  and  renewed 
her  acquaintance  after  so  many  years. 

"  I  enclose  her  note  for  your  edification,  which  you  can  bum  after  peru- 
sal. Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  ask  Amy  (his  niece)  to  direct  you  to  a 
woman  I  shot  at  my  last  visit,  and  lay  out  on  her  £1  this  cold  weather. 
Blankets — fuel — muffetees — cash. 

"  I  don't  shoot  women  every  day,  and  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 

"  I  will  duly  repay  you  the  same. 

"  Love  to  all. 

"  Your  affectionate  Brother,  Charles  Eeade." 

At  this  time,  we  must  remark,  he  was  not  overflush  of 
ready  cash,  and  £5  was  really  a  relatively  large  sum,  al- 
beit, contrasted  with  his  munificence  later  on,  it  seems  al- 
most niggardly.  Evidently,  on  receiving  Mr.  Bovill's  in- 
formation he  lost  no  time  in  paying  a  visit  to  Clapham  in 
order  to  discover  his  former  tutor's  widow,  and  this  little 
circumstance  testifies  indirectly  to  the  gratitude  he  cher- 
ished for  that  worthy  man's  careful  tuition. 


CHAPTER  V. 

SAVED   BY   A   SECOND. 

Life  at  Staines  flowed  with  average  smoothness,  varied 
by  a  few  breezes  and  no  storms.  Mr.  Ilearn  appears  to 
have  kept  the  main  chance  steadily  in  view,  and  to  have 
energized  for  his  pupil's  advancement  in  classics.  Being, 
however,  himself  a  man  with  a  fine  perception  of  the  music 
of  language,  a  rhetorician  if  not  an  orator,  he  paid  especial 
attention  to  English  composition.  In  after-life  Charles 
Reade  bitterly  regretted  that  he  had  never  been  at  a  pub- 
lic school,  nor  was  there  any  reason  why  he  should  not 
have  gone  to  Rugby  or  the  Charterhouse  like  his  elder 
brothers.  It  happened,  however,  that  Mr.  Hearn  compen- 
sated for  the  loss  indirectly.  He  discovered  in  Charles 
Reade  one,  like  himself,  with  an  intuitive  capacity  for  ex- 
pression, coupled  with  a  quick  perception,  a  vivid  imagina- 
tion, and  a  more  than  ordinary  power  of  generalization. 
By  a  strange  paradox,  a  preacher  whose  model  was  the 
vapid  Blair,  contrived  to  infuse  into  his  promising  pupil 
a  love  of  epigram,  a  terse,  concise  style,  and  a  vigorous 
method.  Mrs.  Reade  sent  her  pet  son  to  Staines  to  be 
converted  into  a  scholar.  That  was  beyond  the  utmost 
possible  of  Mr.  Hearn,  who  had  attained  to  no  more  than 
the  level  of  scholarship  which  satisfied  parental  ideas  at 
that  time  of  day.  But  he  did  better  for  the  boy  than  if  he 
had  been  a  Porson  or  a  Conington.  He  taught  him  how  to 
wield  his  pen,  and  that  was  indeed  instruction.  None  better. 


Saved  hy  a  Second.  65 

It  is  a  far  cry  back  to  the  twenties,  and  Charles  Reade 
left  behind  him  no  record  of  his  school-days.  To  the  last 
his  mind  was  so  immersed  in  objects  of  passing  interest, 
more  particularly  the  drama  and  literature,  that  he  es- 
caped that  retrospective  mental  attitude  which  seems  to 
be  the  normal  concomitant  of  age.  He  was,  too,  never  a 
great  talker,  albeit  when  he  chose  to  exercise  his  conver- 
sational powers  he  could  be  not  merely  brilliant,  but  fas- 
cinating. Except  in  a  passing  allusion  to  his  boyhood  at 
Ipsden,  he  seldom  dwelt  even  for  a  moment  on  that  period 
of  his  life,  if  indeed  his  brain  ever  recalled  it.  For  his 
youth  he  sighed,  sometimes  with  strange  bitterness,  as 
though  age  had  robbed  him  of  his  rights ;  for  his  boyhood 
never.  Iffley  had  left  so  bitter  an  after-taste  as  to  cause 
him  to  dismiss  it  finally  from  his  memory,  and  Staines  he 
seems  to  have  passed  by  as  a  colorless  episode.  Color- 
less it  certainly  was,  yet  it  so  happened  that  but  for  the 
presence  of  mind  of  his  brother  Compton  its  hue  might 
have  been  strangely  darkened.  In  plain  English,  he  may 
be  said  to  have  narrowly  escaped  with  limb,  if  not  with  life. 

The  parish  church  of  Staines,  whereof,  as  has  been  said, 
Mr.  Hearn  was  the  assistant  minister,  happened  to  be  un- 
dergoing one  of  those  singular  processes  of  beautification 
and  improvement  which  the  churchwardens  of  the  Geor- 
gian era  deemed  advisable  in  the  interest  of  ffistheticism. 
True,  their  notions  of  art  differed  remarkably  from  those 
of  Pugin  and  Gilbert  Scott.  Whitewash  and  stucco  were 
the  materials  they  especially  affected,  and  if  an  ecclesias- 
tical edifice  showed  signs  of  decay,  their  plan  was  to  tie  it, 
or  clamp  it,  or  prop  it,  or  patch  it.  This  effected,  they 
painted  in  gold  letters  on  a  black  ground  their  services  in 
having  renovated  their  church,  and  placed  this  bold  adver- 
tisement in  the  most  conspicuous  place.     They  thought 


66  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

themselves  the  Solomons  of  their  generation,  and  were 
proud  of  the  title. 

Staines  Church  seems  at  the  epoch  we  are  considering 
to  have  needed  something  more  substantial  than  a  church- 
warden's restoration,  inasmuch  as  its  condition  was  rickety 
and  tumble-down  in  the  extreme.  Moreover,  in  country- 
towns  when  George  was  King  the  population  was  much 
more  zealous  in  its  attendance  at  church  than  is  the  case 
at  present,  and  Mr.  lleam  preached  every  Sunday  to  a 
large  and  possibly  attentive  congregation.  As  a  disciple 
of  the  great  and,  be  it  added,  good  Mr.  Simeon  of  Cam- 
bridge, he  may  be  supposed  to  have  drawn,  as  the  phrase 
went;  for  rhetoric  was  at  that  time  of  day  much  in  re- 
quest, and  sermons,  however  ponderous  they  might  be, 
found  ready  listeners.  Consequently  Staines  Church, 
ugly  and  tottering  though  it  was,  filled  well,  and  the  con- 
gregations were  as  large  as  appreciative. 

The  churchwardens  and  their  ^;ac?re,  Mr,  Govett,  do  not 
appear  to  have  paid  much  attention  to  the  insecure  con- 
dition of  the  fabric.  Archdeacons  in  those  days,  albeit 
they  wielded  powers  of  an  autocratic  character  such  as 
they  have  long  since  been  relieved  of,  were  tolerably  in- 
different about  using  them.  At  the  same  time,  when  a 
church  came  down  with  a  run,  those  dignitaries  would 
suddenly  awake  to  the  consideration  that  the  province  of 
an  archdeacon  was,  as  Sydney  Smith  tersely  phrased  it, 
to  perform  archidiaconal  functions,  and  in  that  event  a 
parish  was  mulcted  by  a  colossal  rate.  Hence,  when 
Staines  Church  exhibited,  at  last,  unmistakable  symptoms 
of  converting  itself  incontinently  into  a  ruinous  heap  of 
debris,  its  responsible  guardians  took  fright,  and  when  one 
of  the  side  walls  began  to  bulge  externally,  actually  com- 
menced repairs  in  good  earnest. 


S(med  hy  a  Second.  67 

The  poor  old  church,  however,  was  virtually  beyond 
tinkering.  It  had  been  galleried,  and  high  pewed,  and 
whitewashed,  and  plastered;  but  neither  the  plaster,  nor 
the  whitewash,  nor  the  high  pews  would  support  the  side 
walls,  which  were  simply  being  forced  out  externally  by 
the  weight  of  the  galleries.  These  walls  had  not  been 
built  to  support  anything  more  ponderous  than  the  roof 
and  their  own  weight;  and  though,  when  the  wardens  in 
their  wisdom  piled  Pelion  super  Ossam  in  the  shape  of 
galleries  resting  on  beams  dovetailed  into  the  masonry, 
the  overburdened  walls  bore  their  burden  bravely  with- 
out reference  to  dynamics,  still  the  time  came  when  the 
extra  pressure  loosened  the  said  masonry,  and  then  every- 
thing betokened  an  immediate  collapse.  Too  late  the 
churchwardens  realized  the  extent  of  the  mischief,  and 
prepared  to  act. 

They  first  made  the  not  unimportant  discovery,  by  the 
simple  process  of  removing  the  soil,  that  the  foundations 
were  quite  rotten.  Having  satisfied  themselves  generally 
of  this  rather  alarming  phenomenon,  they  next  proceeded 
to  excavate,  largely,  in  order  to  ascertain  the  full  extent 
of  the  mischief,  a  feat  of  engineering  which  would  have 
been  quite  justifiable  had  they  contemplated  closing  the 
church.  It  never  seems  to  have  occurred  to  their  minds 
that  by  exposing  the  foundations  and  then  cramming  the 
galleries  with  human  beings  they  were  making  tolerably 
certain  of  a  collapse;  in  fact,  they  were  acting  with  a 
noble  indifference  to  every  architectural  consideration. 
There  is,  moreover,  a  strong  and  incomprehensible  preju- 
dice against  pretermitting  the  ritual  of  the  Church  of 
England  for  any  considerationwhatever.  Sifractus  illa- 
batur  orbis,  the  average  incumbent  would  go  on  with  his 
function,  unless  indeed  nervousness  overpowered  him,  in 


68  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

which  event  he  would  secure  at  any  cost  the  services  of  a 
Locum  Tenens.  This  is  no  exaggeration,  since  it  remains 
an  liistorical  fact  that  when  Canterbury  Cathedral  was  on 
fire,  and  the  roof  all  ablaze,  they  proceeded  with  the 
usual  choral  service  as  though  nothing  was  the  matter. 
In  the  same  vein  of  heroism,  though  Staines  Church  was 
known  to  be  in  a  highly  dangerous  state,  Messrs.  Govett 
and  Hearn,  as  its  Priest  and  Levite,  never  dreamed  of 
postponing  divine  service  until  after  the  needful  repairs 
had  been  completed.  Whatever  might  happen,  the  sacred 
routine  must  be  kept  up. 

The  congregation  duly  assembled  in  the  morning  of 
Sunday,  and  nothing  of  an  untoward  character  happened. 
The  good  people  of  Staines  were,  so  it  is  recoi'ded,  rather 
fidgety,  but  the  success  of  the  morning's  experiment  reas- 
sured them,  and  an  overflowing  congregation  mustered 
for  the  evening  service.  Again  it  seemed  as  though  all 
would  go  smoothly,  and  in  truth  but  few  suspected  the 
proximity  of  peril,  when  in  the  middle  of  the  service  a 
crash  was  heard  like  unto  thunder,  and  the  entire  north 
wall  fell  after  the  manner  of  those  of  Jericho. 

The  effect  on  the  congregation  can  only  be  described 
as  paradoxical.  Had  any  such  catastrophe  happened  in 
a  theatre,  the  shrieks  and  shouts  would  have  been  deaf- 
ening. As  it  was,  the  magical  influence  of  Church  pre- 
vailed over  every  other  consideration.  The  people  did 
not  utter  more  than  a  low  murmur,  but  then  followed 
none  the  less  a  mad  rush  to  escape,  for  every  one  antici- 
pated, not  without  cause,  that  the  galleries  and  roof  would 
follow  suite,  and  the  church  become  in  a  trice  a  pile  of 
ruins.  It  was  remembered  afterwards  that  the  only  mem- 
ber of  the  congregation  who  uttered  a  cry  was  a  man 
with  a  wooden  leg,  which  artificial  prop  got  fixed  tight  in 


Samd  hy  a  Second.  69 

a  plug,  thereby  preventing  him  from  motion.     The  rest, 
in  silence,  made  for  the  doors  pell-mell. 

Compton,  with  admirable  presence  of  mind,  was  among 
the  first  to  grasp  the  situation  and  make  his  escape. 
Then  he  looked  round  for  his  brother  Charles.  The  boy 
was  not  visible  among  the  crowd;  the  rafters  had  begun 
to  fall  like  minute  guns;  the  danger  was  imminent  and 
overpoAvering.  Could  Charles  Reade  have  already  suf- 
fered damage?  He  was  light  of  limb  and  agile,  well 
adapted  for  a  stampede.  The  chances  were,  therefore, 
that  some  mishap  had  befallen  him.  A  moment's  thought, 
and  Compton  faced  the  hurrying  crowd  blanched  with 
fear  at  the  noise  of  falling  timber,  pushed  his  way  through 
them  to  the  pew  where  his  brother  had  been  seated,  and 
started  to  perceive  it  to  all  appearance  deserted. 

He  was  about  to  emerge  for  the  second  time  from  the 
church,  when  by  a  fortunate  instinct  he  pushed  open  the 
door  of  the  large,  square,  baize-lined  pew  to  see  a  pair  of 
legs,  and  in  another  second  the  entire  body  of  his  brother 
crouching  beneath  the  seat.  Quickly  and  resolutely  he 
dragged  him  forth,  whispered  that  not  a  second  was  to 
be  lost,  and  as  he  hauled  the  terrified  boy  from  the  church 
porch,  the  roof  fell. 

They  were  among  the  last  out  of  the  doomed  edifice. 
No  one,  happily,  was  hurt,  not  even  the  man  with  the 
wooden  leg,  and  in  the  twenties  neither  sex  dreamed  of 
dying  of  nerves.  But  the  scene  was  one  to  be  not  in- 
aptly termed  melodramatic.  It  had  its  serious,  and  might 
have  had  its  tragic,  aspect,  nor  was  it  altogether  without 
its  vein  of  comedy.  Staines,  like  most  country  towns, 
boasted  a  commercial  academy,  and  the  pupils  of  that  in- 
stitution were  seated  solemnly  in  the  gallery  when  the 
crash  came.     Their  pedagogue  with  fine  promptitude  pro- 


10  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

pelled  his  masculine  form  through  the  scurrying  crowd, 
and  was  actually  one  of  the  earliest  to  reach  the  church- 
yard with  a  whole  skin.  Arrived  at  that  point  of  van- 
tage, the  worthy  instructor  in  the  three  R's  suddenly  be- 
thought him  of  his  pupils,  who  might,  for  aught  he  knew 
to  the  contrary,  at  that  very  moment  be  undergoing  a 
pulverizing  or  flattening  process.  lie  was  naturally  an 
economical  man,  one  who  practised  in  private  life  all  the 
arithmetic  it  was  his  privilege  to  impart  to  budding  shop- 
walkers and  embryo  clerks.  At  such  a  crisis,  however,  he 
doubtless  thought  that  a  little  spice  of  recklessness  might 
be  allowable,  if  not  appropriate.  Hence,  in  an  unwonted 
burst  of  extravagance  he  shrieked,  "My  boys,  my  boys ! 
I  will  give  any  one  ten  shillings  who  will  rescue  my  boys!" 
To  anticipate,  the  said  boys  required  little  or  no  rescuing, 
for  they  were  quick  to  follow  their  revered  master's  ex- 
ample; but  the  lavish  offer  of  ten  shillings  for  a  whole 
school,  if  alive,  induced  the  pupils  of  Mr.  Hearn  subse- 
quently to  indulge  in  a  calculation  as  to  how  much  the 
life  of  each  member  of  the  Staines  Commercial  Academy 
was  rated  at  by  its  master,  and  it  appeared  that  the  pre- 
cise sum  was  threepence  ! 

In  Charles  Reade's  "  Commonplace  Book  "  we  find  the 
following  references  to  Edwin  James  and  the  above  inci- 
dent, the  exact  details  of  which  have  been  furnished  by 
his  brother  Compton  : 

"(1.)  John  Elwin  James,  late  illustrious  Queen's  Counsel,  now  these 
many  years  under  a  sad  cloud.  My  old  schoolfellow  of  Staines  Lodge. 
Three  years  my  senior.     Such  a  sharp  boy ! 

"(2.)  This  gentleman  was  my  schoolfellow  at  Staines  for  more  than 
two  years.  We  were  in  church  there  together  when  the  transept  fell  in. 
Just  as  the  Vicar  repeated  his  text  for  the  twentieth  time,  '  "Woe  unto 
you.  Scribes  and  Pharisees,  hypocrites !' — rumble,  tumble,  rush,  cold  air, 
shrieks,  yells,  etc." 


Saved  ly  a  Second.  11 

That  was  the  last  service  Compton  was  able  to  render 
brother  Charles  as  a  schoolboy.  In  the  spring  of  1827, 
the  latter  being  just  thirteen,  Compton  ceased  to  be  a 
schoolboy  altogether,  and  his  younger  brother  remained 
under  the  care  and  tuition  of  Mr.  Hearn  till  he  was  turned 
fifteen.  By  then  it  was  judged,  not  unadvisedly,  that  he 
had  sucked  his  master's  brains  dry,  and  accordingly  he  was 
removed  to  finish  his  school  career  under  a  Mr.  Durham, 
who  enjoyed  the  reputation  of  being  alike  a  brilliant 
scholar  and  one  capable  of  running  his  pupils  successfully 
for  scholarships  at  the  University.  The  Squire  of  Ips- 
den,  having  himself  done  nothing  better  than  spend 
money  at  Oriel,  had  imbibed  a  prejudice  against  Oxford; 
but  he  yielded  to  his  wife's  wish,  that  their  youngest 
and  clever  son  should  make  the  experiment  of  an  aca- 
demical career,  provided  that  he  could  carry  off  a  scholar- 
ship. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE   DEMYSniP   EXAMINATION. 

In  the  year  of  grace  1831,  the  University  of  Oxford, 
like  the  public  services,  was  manipulable  by  persons  pos- 
sessing that  undefined  yet  potential  leverage,  interest.  A 
man  might  obtain  a  scholarship,  a  fellowship,  a  headship, 
or  professorship  with  little  more  than  a  smattering  of 
classics  or  mathematics,  while  the  highest  proficiency  in 
the  subjects  recognized  in  the  schools  did  not  absolutely 
insure  any  participation  in  the  endowments  of  the  wealthy 
corporation  or  its  component  colleges.  At  the  same  time, 
popular  opinion,  both  in  the  University  and  out  of  doors, 
was  tending  in  a  direction  adverse  to  this  corrupt  system. 
Oriel  had  set  a  noble  example  by  throwing  open  her  Fel- 
lowships to  the  world,  her  immediate  reward  being  the 
aggregation  of  the  grandest  minds  of  Oxford,  perhaps  we 
might  say  of  the  nation,  within  her  common  room.  -  Car- 
dinal Newman,  Keble  and  Clough,  AVhately  and  Arnold, 
were  all  Fellows  of  this  famous  college,  whose  initiative 
Balliol,  with  splendid  success,  was  soon  to  follow.  The 
colleges  least  influenced  by  what  may  be  termed  the 
Oriel  spirit  were  Magdalen,  New  College,  and  St.  John's, 
and  it  was  with  the  first-named  of  this  trio,  the  most 
beautiful  of  all  collegiate  institutions,  that  Charles  Reade 
was  destined  to  ally  his  name. 

Ipsden  being  situated  but  seventeen  miles  from  the  great 
academic  city,  and  its  hospitality  as  large  and  generous  as  its 


The  Demyship  Examination.  1Z 

tone  was  intellectual,  had  become  by  no  means  a  terra  in- 
cogjiita  to  the  Oxford  dons.  Plumptre,Master  of  University, 
a  gentleman  of  ancestry  and  culture,  was  an  ever-acceptable 
guest  at  Ipsden  House.  Dr.  Macbride,  Principal  of  Mag- 
dalen Hall,  then  a  kind  of  parasite  of  the  great  college, 
forming  as  it  did  an  angle  of  its  pile  of  buildings,  was 
Mrs.  Reade's  dearest  male  friend — the  good  lady  boasted 
such  a  multitude  of  dearest  friends  of  her  own  sex  that  it 
was  impossible  to  compare  her  superlatives.  He  was 
learned,  evangelical,  benevolent,  courtly,  and,  though  a 
Scotchman,  exhibited  not  the  slightest  trace  of  his  nation- 
ality, if  we  except  a  ceaseless  industry.  Dr.  Ellerton,  Fel- 
low of  Magdalen,  was  another  acquaintance,  as  also  Mr. — 
nicknamed  Corporal  —  Domford,  Fellow  of  Oriel,  who 
would  have  married  Julia  Reade  if  the  fates  had  been 
propitious.  Mrs.  Reade,  therefore,  in  virtue  of  an  admi- 
rable cuisine,  enjoyed  a  plethora  of  the  sort  of  interest 
which  hospitality  commands. 

Possibly  it  may  have  been  Dr.  Macbride,  possibly  Dr. 
Ellerton,  who  suggested  that  Mr.  Durham's  promising 
pupil  should  stand  for  a  Demyship  at  Magdalen.  It  was 
rather  of  the  nature  of  shooting  an  arrow  into  the  air,  for, 
bar  Dr.  Ellerton,  Mrs.  Reade  had  no  string  to  her  bow 
within  WajTiflete's  college.  Dr.  Martin  Joseph  Routh,  at 
that  epoch  President,  and  one  of  the  most  learned  men  in 
the  University,  who  managed  to  hang  on  to  this  mortal 
coil  for  ninety-nine  years  and  three  months,  was  a  High- 
Churchman,  and  that,  too,  at  a  period  when  high-church- 
manship  was  scarcely  even  invented.  Consequently,  to 
Ipsden  he  was  very  much  anathema,  and  doubly  so,  since 
he  did  not  care  to  preserve  amicable  relations  with  his 
next  door  neighbor,  ce  cher  Dr.  Macbride.  Looking  back, 
one  almost  wonders  how  it  came  to  pass  that  Charles 
4 


74  Memoir  of  Charles  Meade. 

Reade,  a  youth  of  seventeen,  was  run  for  a  Magdalen 
Demyship  in  the  teeth  of  probability.  True,  a  Reade  four 
centuries  back  had  given  the  stone  whereof  the  college 
was  built.  That,  however,  was  rather  a  statute-run  obliga- 
tion, and  one  which  the  Fellows  would  have  encountered 
with  a  sneer  had  it  been  put  forward  as  an  excuse.  Grati- 
tude is  hardly  the  virtue  which  abounds  most  in  college 
common  rooms,  and  the  fact  of  Sir  Edmund  Rede  of 
Boarstal  having  virtually  built  the  tenement  they  in- 
habited would  be  one  they  might  by  no  means  relish  be- 
ing flung  at  them.  In  fine,  but  for  the  chapter  of  acci- 
dents, Charles  Reade  would  never  have  been  Demy  or 
Fellow  of  Magdalen. 

The  college  at  that  period  had  preserved  the  main  out- 
lines prescribed  by  its  pious  founder,  William  of  Wayn- 
flete,  Lord  Chancellor  to  King  Henry  "VI.  and  Bishop  of 
Winchester.  Its  rule  was  relaxed — that  of  course.  There 
was  no  mass,  no  fasts,  no  prelections  in  the  college  hall, 
nothing,  in  short,  either  Roman  or  Catholic;  while  if,  as 
was  the  case,  the  Fellows  were  bound  to  celibacy,  the 
president  and  chaplains  were  permitted  the  luxury  of  the 
matrimonial  state.  The  revenues  of  the  college,  derivable 
from  lands  in  London,  Hants,  Lincolnshire,  Oxon,  and  other 
shires,  amounted  to  about  twenty-four  thousand  pounds 
per  annum,  of  which  grand  total  President  Routh  absorbed. 
for  his  own  share  one  sixth,  the  balance  being  distributed 
—  on  very  uneven  lines  —  among  forty  Fellows,  thirty 
Demies,  twelve  Chaplains  and  Clerks,  sixteen  Choristers,  an 
Organist,  a  Schoolmaster  and  Usher,  a  Steward,  and  several 
Incumbents  who  were  made  comfortable  for  life  at  the 
college  expense,  in  consideration  of  having  formerly  been 
Fellows.  Needless  to  add,  the  forty  Fellows,  as  the  ruling 
body,  appropriated  for  their  own  use  the  lion's  share,  the 


The  Demyship  Examination.  75 

Seniors  being  tenaciously  careful  of  their  own  interests,  so 
that  the  Demies  and  other  Foundation  members  received 
little  more  than  a  small  pittance.  A  Demyship,  however, 
had  a  relative  value,  in  that  it  led  to  a  Fellowship.  The 
Founder  provided  that  his  Fellowships  should  be  restricted 
to  the  natives  of  certain  counties  and  dioceses,  parcelling 
out  these  preferred  geographical  areas  among  the  forty 
Fellows.  Thus,  for  example,  three  of  his  Fellows  were  to 
be  born  in  Oxfordshire,  but  one  only  in  Kent;  Lincoln- 
shire, his  birthplace,  and  the  Diocese  of  Winton  being  es- 
pecially favored.  Anybody  born  in  any  one  of  these  se- 
lected shires  and  dioceses  was  eligible  for  a  Demyship,  but 
after  election  he  had  to  wait  till  a  Fellow  on  his  county 
or  diocese  took  a  living,  married,  came  into  a  fortune  in 
land,  or  died.  He  would  then,  if  he  had  taken  his  B.A. 
degree,  succeed  de  jure,  but  subject  to  one  condition. 
There  were  to  be  two  medical  and  three  law  Fellows,  and 
thus  a  Demy  might  be  required,  owing  to  the  Fellow  he 
succeeded  being  a  doctor  or  lawyer,  to  embrace  one  or 
other  of  these  professions,  or  to  lose  his  Fellowship.  Some- 
times a  Demy  waited  for  a  vacancy  for  ten,  twenty,  thirty, 
or  more  years,  and  cases  have  occurred  of  men  living  and 
dying  as  Demies  at  a  green  old  age,  owing  to  the  longevity 
of  the  Fellow  for  whose  shoes  they  were  waiting.  A 
Demyship,  however,  was  the  first  step,  and  the  Fellows 
coveted  that  appointment  for  their  relatives. 

This  brings  us  to  the  consideration  of  how  these  scholar- 
ships— for  such  they  ranked  academically — were  bestowed. 
There  was,  we  may  remark  in  limine,  no  nonsense  of  merit 
about  them.  From  any  such  taint  they  were  as  free  as 
the  most  noble  Order  of  the  Garter.  There  numbered,  as 
has  been  said,  thirty  Demies,  and,  taking  one  year  with  an- 
other, there  were  from  four  to  five  vacancies  to  be  filled 


76  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

np  on  St.  Mary  Magdalen's  Festival,  viz.,  July  22.  The 
Times  and  other  papers  duly  notified  the  fact  that  on  that 
day  so  many  Demies  would  be  elected.  From  this  you 
might  suppose  that  competition  was  invited,  and  that  the 
examination  would  decide  the  successful  candidates.  Not 
so.  The  new  Demies  were  nominated  by  the  college 
officers,  and  the  college  officers,  with  the  exception  of  the 
president,  changed  each  2d  of  February  in  every  year; 
"  the  end  of  all  tjiings  "  the  day  was  in  consequence  nick- 
named. These  college  officers,  need  it  be  related,  were 
selected  from  the  list  of  Fellows  in  rotation,  and  each  Fellow 
served  his  turn  for  each  office  when  his  year  came  round. 
The  list  was  as  follows:  President,  Vice-President,  Dean  of 
Divinity,  Senior  Dean  of  Arts,  Junior  Dean  of  Arts,  Senior 
Lursar,  Riding  Bursar,  and  Junior  Bursar.  Oddly  enough, 
the  college  tutors  were  not  considered  officers  at  all  un- 
less they  chanced  to  fill  for  the  year  one  of  the  above- 
mentioned  posts,  the  real  value  of  which  consisted  in  the 
probability  of  its  holder  having  the  privilege  of  nominat- 
ing a  Demy — in  other  words,  of  bestowing  on  a  relative  an 
income  for  life,  provided  the  recipient  avoided  the  fatal 
noose  of  matrimony;  at  all  events,  until  such  time  as  he 
obtained  a  college  living.  If,  therefore,  there  were  four 
vacancies,  the  President,  Vice-President,  Dean  of  Divinity, 
and  Senior  Dean  of  Arts  had  each  a  Demyship  to  give 
away.  If  eight  vacancies,  then  each  of  the  college  officers 
enjoyed  the  same  privilege;  but  if  one  only,  then  the  Presi- 
dent alone  appointed.  It  was  whispered  that  President 
Routh  selected  the  best  candidate  who  offered  himself, 
and  this  may  have  been  the  case  at  times,  but  as  a  rule 
the  one  supreme  merit  in  the  venerable  old  gentleman's 
eyes  consisted  in  being  the  grandson  of  some  one  of  his 
friends  of  by-gone  years.     It  happened,  however,  that  he 


The  Demyship  Examination.  17 

kept  an  eagle  eye  on  the  papers  of  the  several  candidates, 
and  when  a  youth  conspicuously  failed,  intimated  to  the 
particular  Fellow  who  contemplated  aj)pointing  him  that 
he  should  oppose  his  nomination.  It  was  only  in  the  event 
of  a  complete  fiasco  that  Dr.  Routh  took  this  decided  line; 
more  often,  when  dissatisfied,  he  would  allow  the  nomina- 
tion to  pass,  but  remark  sarcastically,  "  Your  nominee,  sir, 
may  be  a  very  excellent  young  man,  but  he  is  no  scholar." 
In  1831  the  example  of  Oriel  had  decidedly  aflfected  the 
Magdalen  common  room,  and  the  tutors  would,  if  they 
could,  have  abolished  the  nomination  system  in  favor  of 
pure  merit.  It  is  necessary,  at  the  risk  of  weariness,  to 
particularize  these  details,  because  without  them  the  elec- 
tion of  Charles  Reade  would  be  misunderstood.  It  has  all 
along  been  imagined  that  he  owed  his  Fellowship  to  a 
nomination  as  Demy.  This  is  an  error.  Merit  brought 
him  into  the  college,  not  favor.  He  was  indebted  for  his 
fifty  years  of  Fellowship  and  four  years  of  Demyship  to  no 
human  being  save  Charles  Reade.  True,  had  Dr.  EUerton 
been  one  of  the  college  ofiicers  for  the  year,  it  is  possible 
that  he  might  have  nominated  the  talented  son  of  his 
friend,  Mrs.  Reade  of  Ipsden.  He  was  not,  however,  des- 
tined to  render  her  this  signal  service. 

The  election  was  one  of  those  jobs  that  are  neatly  man- 
aged. It  was  assumed  that  any  candidate  could  write  an 
English  essay  respectably,  and  thereupon  this  was  made 
the  2^1^06  de  resistance  of  the  menu.  Many  an  ignoramus 
justified  the  distich — 

"And  native  check, when  facts  were  weak, 
Bore  him  in  triumph  through." 

It  happened,  however,  on  this  eventful  occasion,  that 
among  the  total  of  candidates  was  one  born  essayist,  a 


78  Memoir  of  Charles  Iteade. 

youth  who  ah-eady  could  wield  his  pen  epigramraatically. 
His  scholarship  was  average,  though  not  brilliant,  but  his 
English  coruscated.  The  shades  of  Addison  and  Gibbon 
Beemed  to  inspire  him.  Noctes  Ambrosian  Wilson,  alias 
Christopher  North,  who  had  just  left  the  college,  cast  his 
mantle  upon  him,  and  Collins,  the  college  singer,  imparted 
a  spice  of  his  poesy  to  the  candidate's  pages.  Mills  vowed 
that  Charles  Reade's  essay  gave  evidence  of  absolute  tal- 
ent. Old  Dr.  Routh  read  it  from  end  to  end,  and  smiled 
the  approval  of  an  octogenarian.  For  all  that,  the  best 
man  in  would  have  been  passed  over  infallibly — as  had 
been  the  case  before  half  a  hundred  times  at  least — but 
for  the  lucky  accident  that  one  of  the  designate  nominees 
80  completely  failed  all  along  the  line  that  President  Routh 
put  his  foot  down  and  declared  with  emphasis  that  he 
would  not  consent  to  the  nomination  of  an  absolute  dunce. 
That  gave  Charles  Reade  his  chance.  He  was  facile 
princeps  among  all  the  candidates,  the  only  one  who  had 
risen  above  mediocrity.  Mills,  the  tutor,  spoke  up  for  him 
right  manfully.  The  subject  of  the  English  essay  was, 
"  How  far  is  Ambition  productive  of  Virtue  ?"  To  a  man, 
the  other  candidates,  imagining  the  college  expected  them 
to  glorify  Uriah  Heepishness,  proceeded  on  the  old  trite 
track  to  decry  ambition  as  one  of  the  devastating  forces 
of  humanity.  Charles  Reade,  however,  being  himself  wild- 
ly ambitious,  was  not  so  canting  a  hypocrite  as  to  abuse  a 
quality  he  admired  intensely.  He  took  pen  and  wrote  con 
brio,  yet  judgmatically,  his  ideas.  In  barbarous  days,  he 
affirmed,  when  war  is  the  only  outlet  for  ambition,  ambi- 
tion showed  to  the  greatest  disadvantage  as  being  pure 
selfishness.  But  whatever  might  be  said  against  military 
ambition  had  been  said  already,  and  to  the  domain  of  learn- 
ing and  the  arts  these  censures  were  quite  inapplicable. 


The  Demyship  Examination,  19 

Without  ambition  as  a  motive  power,  he  contended,  there 
would  be  no  excellence,  nothing  but  a  dead  level  of  medi- 
ocrity; and  he  went  on  to  remark,  incidentally,  that  all 
academic  successes  were  in  reality  the  triumphs  of  an  hon- 
orable ambition.  Further,  he  argued  that  the  sole  alterna- 
tive of  ambition  would  be  a  chaotic  stagnation  of  all  the 
mental  faculties;  and,  in  brief,  his  peroration  was  the  warm- 
est eulogium  of  the  very  quality  which  the  other  candi- 
dates had  been  gibbeting  as  the  meanest  of  vices.  The 
effect  of  this  incisive  honesty  on  the  mind  of  a  scholar 
who  was  reverenced  by  his  contemporaries,  including,  inter 
alios,  Lord  Selborne,  as  a  man  of  genius  and  conscience, 
the  tutor  Mills,  was  almost  electrical.  "Good  heavens!" 
the  candidates  overheard  him  exclaim  in  the  ear  of  Presi- 
dent Routh,  "  here  is  a  boy  who  gives  us  his  own  ideas  in- 
stead of  other  people's!"  Better  still,  old  Dr.  Routh,  after 
he  had  read  the  essay,  endorsed  liis  subordinate's  verdict, 
and  thus,  as  it  were,  by  acclamation,  Charles  Reade  was 
elected  Demy  of  Magdalen. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

Uin)ERGEADUATE  LIFE. 

Life  in  beautiful  Magdalen  during  the  years  1831-35 
was  about  as  agreeable  as  it  is  well  possible  to  conceive. 
There  were  at  least  twenty  out  of  the  forty  Fellows  in 
residence,  and  the  high  table  at  the  dinner  hour  was  the 
best  filled  in  the  College  Hall.  The  senior  was  old  Di*. 
EUerton,  the  next  Dr.  Daubeny,  chemist,  botanist,  atomic 
theorist,  and  in  after-days  President  of  the  Royal  Society; 
the  third,  Mr.  Edwards,  who  was  mathematical  tutor,  and 
the  most  dignified  and  courteous  of  dons.  Mills  was  the 
leading  tutor;  but  on  the  day  that  Charles  Reade  was  ad- 
mitted Demy  a  certain  Mr.  Robert  Lowe,  of  University, 
was  elected  probationer  Fellow,  and  this  gentleman, 
subsequently  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  and  Viscount 
Sherbrooke,  became  his  private  tutor.  As  might  be  ex- 
pected, the  college  was  by  no  means  rich  in  celebrities. 
Lord  Rosse,  the  astronomer,  had  as  Lord  Oxmantown 
been  gentleman  commoner;  Philpotts,  Bishop  of  Exeter, 
was  on  the  list  of  ex-Fellows;  and  President  Routh  had 
earned  the  appreciation  of  German  students  of  theology. 
Mr.  Lowe,  however,  and  Roundell  Palmer  were  as  yet 
unknown  beyond  the  confines  of  Oxford,  and  Mozley, 
afterwards  Regius  Professor  of  Divinity,  an  enlightened 
theologian,  did  not  enter  the  college  till  about  the  date  of 
Charles  Reade's  graduation.  Among  his  contemporaries 
were  Lord  Winmarleigh  and  Mr.  Thomas  Charaberlayne, 


Undergraduate  Life.  81 

the  distinguished  yachtsman,  who  were  Gentlemen- Com- 
moners; President  Bulley,  his  senior  three  years,  but  his 
constant  friend;  Bernard  Smith,  his  chief  ally,  who  after- 
wards joined  the  Roman  Communion  and  became  a  canon ; 
Henderson,  Dean  of  Carlisle;  Dr.  Newman,  the  Squire  of 
Nelmes,  whose  eccentricities  were  for  many  years  the  talk 
of  Oxford;  Dr.  Fisher,  the  present  Senior  Fellow;  and 
Dr.  Bloxam,  the  antiquarian,  for  whom  he  maintained  the 
greatest  regard.  Goldwin  Smith  and  John  Conington 
were  later  importations. 

Those  unacquainted  with  the  glories  of  Magdalen  it 
may  be  advisable  to  refer  to  Macaulay's  magnificent  de- 
scription. Since  1831  the  College  has  changed  architec- 
turally as  otherwise.  A  new  block  of  buildings  faces  the 
High  Street,  and  covers  the  site  of  old  Magdalen  Hall, 
which,  with  the  exception  of  a  picturesque  turret  still  re- 
maining, was  destroyed  by  fire.  A  very  handsome  school- 
room occupies  the  southwest  angle  of  the  college  build- 
ings, and  the  eastern  side  of  the  Chaplain's  Quadrangle 
was  rebuilt  in  1854.  Not  only  has  the  venerable  Jacobean 
portal,  through  which  Charles  Reade  passed  to  become 
Demy,  disappeared,  but  also  its  successor,  a  well-meant 
but  ill-executed  gateway,  designed  by  the  elder  Pugin. 
In  the  deer-park  quite  half  the  Caroline  elms  of  1831  have 
succumbed  to  wind  and  weather;  the  chapel  has  under- 
gone a  quasi  restoration  by  Cottmgham;  the  old  organ  is 
no  more,  but  has  found  a  magnificent  successor  by  Messrs. 
Gray  and  Davison;  the  Founder's  Chambers  and  Tower 
have  been  restored  by  Sir  G.  Scott.  To-day  the  college 
is  crammed  to  suffocation  with  undergraduates,  and  its 
President  is  more  than  seventy  years  younger  than  was 
Martin  Joseph  Routh,  when  he  passed  away  on  Christmas 
Eve,  1854.  On  the  whole,  however,  the  Magdalen  of 
4* 


82  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

1831  was  a  far  more  charming  home  than  is  the  Magda- 
len of  1886.  The  twenty  resident  Fellows  inhabited  the 
senior  common  room,  and  interfered  but  little  with  the 
Gentleman-Commoners  and  Demies,  both  of  which  orders 
enjoyed  their  own  common  room,  with  a  superb  cellar  of 
"wine,  service  of  plate,  and  other  luxuries.  Lectures  were 
few  and  almost  optional.  A  meet  of  the  hounds  afforded 
an  ample  excuse  for  absence;  and  as  there  were  only  two 
examinations  to  be  passed  in  a  period  of  four  years'  resi- 
dence, the  Demies  had  no  cause  to  weary  themselves  with 
books.  At  Oxford  every  one,  except,  perhaps,  the  purely 
betting  and  equine  men,  reads  more  or  less;  but  reading 
to  suit  one's  bent  is  one  thing,  and  reading  against  the 
grain  another.  A  distinguished  Fellow  of  the  college  has 
narrated  concerning  Charles  Reade  that  he  did  not  take 
much  interest  in  the  studies  of  the  place,  and  hence — the 
sequitur  seems  rather  a  negative  one — no  one  suspected 
that  he  would  ever  obtain  distinction  as  an  author.  That, 
of  course,  expresses  with  precision  the  strong  academic 
prejudice  in  favor  of  grooves.  The  ordinary  Oxonian  of 
academical  eminence  believes,  ab  imo  corde,  in  the  virtue 
of  absorbing  the  thoughts  of  the  great  minds  of  the  past, 
more  especially  when  those  thoughts  happen  to  have  taken 
a  purely  pedantic  and  technical  shape,  and,  pari  passu, 
disbelieves  in  a  man  of  brains  thinking  his  own  thoughts. 
It  was  enough  for  the  dons  of  1831  that  a  student  should 
write  Ciceronian  prose  and  Ovidian  verse,  know  the  Aris- 
totelian Ethics  by  heart,  and  be  able  to  give  the  date  of 
the  battle  of  Marathon.  To  have  gorged  all  that  involved 
capacity;  and  as  for  originality,  it  was  outside  the  calcu- 
lation. Consequently,  when  a  youth  with  a  natural  de- 
testation of  grooves  of  all  sorts  came  to  Magdalen,  his 
superiors  and  equals  in  the  College  alike  failed  to  make 


Undergraduate  Life.  83 

him  out.  He  neglected  his  lectures;  he  played  the  fiddle; 
he  wore  long  curls;  he  footed  the  double  shuffle  like  a 
professional,  for  in  spite  of  an  ugly  rolling  gait  he  was  a 
perfect  dancer,  and  thought  fit  to  select  the  egg-shaped 
dining-table  at  Ipsden  for  Terpsichorean  performances 
to  his  own  accompaniment  on  the  violin — much  to  the 
Squire's  horror.  His  raiment  was  by  no  means  of  the 
subfusc  hue  enjoined  by  the  statutes,  but  rather  of  the 
picturesque  variety.  Moreover,  oddly  enough,  this  rather 
eccentric  Demy  failed  to  appreciate  the  excellent  cellar  of 
the  Demies'  common  room,  having,  in  fact,  a  rooted  aver- 
sion to  wine  and  a  positive  detestation  of  beer.  Added  to 
which  he  evinced  some  sort  of  preference  for  the  College 
Choir,  and  invited  one  of  the  leading  singers  over  to 
Ipsden — a  coup  manque,  for  his  father,  on  learning  that 
the  pretty  boy,  with  the  voice  of  a  cherub,  was  the  son 
of  a  tradesman,  promptly  packed  him  off  to  Oxford.  But 
though  not  industrious  on  academic  lines,  he  read  vora- 
ciously. Oxford  is  a  city  of  books,  of  books  of  every 
conceivable  description,  and  the  future  author  was  thereby 
enabled  to  assimilate  all  the  fiction  and  all  the  dramas  of 
the  past  three  centuries.  Thus  he  began,  while  yet  but 
little  more  than  a  big  boy,  to  cultivate  an  innate  dramatic 
talent.  Those  who  in  after-years  were  astonished  at  his 
rare  ability  as  a  stage-manager,  little  suspected  that  some 
half  a  century  before  they  knew  him  he  was  actually  prac- 
tising parts  before  the  looking-glass.  His  mother  meant 
him  to  be  a  divine,  a  bishop  perhaps.  The  hen,  too,  has 
no  idea  when  she  takes  her  brood  of  ducklings  to  the 
edge  of  a  pond,  just  to  sip  the  water,  that  these  young 
termagants  will  swim  away  from  her.  They  had  got  a 
duckling  instead  of  a  cockrell  in  Magdalen,  and  neither 
Mills's  fascinating  presence  nor  Mr.  Lowe's  splendid  coach- 


84  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

ing  could  keep  liim  to  strictly  farmyard  lines.  While 
they  were  explaining  the  Platonic  idea,  or  discussing  the 
obscure  renderings  in  the  choruses  of  Agamemnon,  their 
pupil's  mind  was  immersed  in  the  contemplation  of  some 
ideal  Peg  Woffington.  Yet  he  did  not  altogether  neglect 
his  pastors  and  masters.  Perhaps  he-  took  in  about  half 
of  what  they  said,  perhaps  even  more.  Neither  did  he 
cut  his  classics  or  logic;  on  the  contrary,  he  treated  them 
as  very  deserving  parerga.  They  were  not  the  business 
of  his  life,  nor  ever  could  be,  but  in  so  far  as  they  touched 
on  the  drama  they  excited  his  admiration.  Besides  which 
he  had  de  rigueur  to  pass,  with  or  without  honors,  other- 
wise he  would  lose  his  Fellowship — a  serious  calamity  to  a 
younger  son,  whose  father's  estate  was  entailed.  He  read, 
therefore,  but  reserved  his  hard  work  for  subjects  with 
which  he  had  positive  affinity. 

The  two  contemporaries  at  Oxford  whom  he  most  ad- 
mired were  Roundell  Palmer,  who  had  carried  everything 
before  him  as  Scholar  of  Trinity,  and  Stanley  of  Balliol, 
known  afterwards  as  Dean  Stanley.  With  the  first,  who 
was  Fellow  of  Magdalen,  he  had  barely  an  acquaintance; 
the  latter  he  never  knew  at  all.  Both  were,  unlike  him, 
intensely,  exclusively  academical,  the  essential  products 
of  Oxford;  yet  though  the  difference  between  their  aims 
and  method  was  so  radical,  he  reverenced  each  as  a  man 
of  commanding  talent.  From  their  point  of  view  he  was 
no  student,  but,  if  so,  they  judged  him  erroneously.  He 
was  certainly  never  a  student  in  the  fields  where  they  ob- 
tained proficiency,  yet  in  bis  own  domain,  as  all  who  kncAv 
him  will  testify,  he  was  a  lifelong  student,  and  his  labor 
had  its  commencement  during  the  uneventful  four  years 
when  he  was  Demy  of  Magdalen. 

His  contemporaries — those,  that  is  to  say,  of  his  under- 


■  Undergraduate  Life.  85 

graduate  days — liave  mostly  passed  away,  and  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  form  an  accurate  impression  of  that  period  of  his 
life.  It  has  been  hinted  that  he  was  never  very  popular 
with  the  Demies'  common  room.  He  could  not,  as  has 
been  said,  appreciate  their  port.  His  manner  was  indi- 
vidual and  unsympathetic;  he  cared  less  than  little  for 
college  gossip  or  college  jokes.  Newman  amused  him, 
but  only  as  a  polished  buffoon.  One  or  two  of  the  others 
he  did  not  consider  gentlemen — an  unpardonable  sin  in 
his  eyes  at  that  time  of  his  life.  It  was  Bernard  Smith 
for  whom  he  cherished  a  sincere  affection,  and  afterwards 
he  was  positively  chagrined  when  his  friend  elected  to 
merge  himself  in  the  Church  of  Rome,  and  not  only  so, 
but  to  embrace  Roman  orders.  He  always  spoke  of  that 
gentleman  as  of  a  brother  whom  he  had  lost  by  the  sort 
of  misadventure  which  he  could  neither  comprehend  nor 
quite  tolerate.  He  had  been  imbued  with  Protestant 
ideas.  His  pet  divine,  Chillingworth,  was  the  author  of  a 
trite  but  ill-worded  aphorism  concerning  the  Bible  and 
the  Bible  only,  and  he  could  quite  undei'stand  any  belief 
under  the  sun — or  absolute  negation — except  Popery. 
Perhaps  not  a  little  of  his  acerbity  towards  all  things 
Papistical,  a  sentiment  which  he  tried  to  veil  in  "The 
Cloister  and  the  Hearth,"  may  be  referred  to  spleen  at 
losing  the  society,  if  not  the  friendship,  of  Bernard  Smith. 
He  was  a  warm  adherent  of  the  Union,  then  located  over 
the  shop  of  the  bibliopole  Vincent  in  the  centre  of  the 
High  Street,  a  situation  far  more  convenient  for  Magdalen 
men  than  remote  New  Inn  Hall  Lane.  The  old  Union 
rooms  were  very  snug,  and  when  the  other  Demies  were 
imbibing  the  vintages  of  Oporto  and  Xeres  in  their  com- 
mon room,  Charles  Reade  might  have  been  found  at  the 
Union,  drinking  in  greedily  the  literature  of  what  was 


86  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

even  then  one  of  the  best  modern  libraries  in  Europe.  He 
was  educating  himself,  and  though  doubtless  people  voted 
him  a  lazy,  unsociable  member  of  a  small  but  fraternal 
society,  was  following  his  destiny.  His  inability  to  as- 
similate with  anybody  and  everybody  was  set  down  to  the 
score  of  pride.  His  election  as  Demy  had  been  informally 
protested  against  by  one  of  the  senior  Fellows,  on  the 
ground  that  the  Founder's  Statutes  enacted  that  the  Demies 
should  be  "  poor  scholars,"  whereas  he  was  the  son  of  a 
man  of  ancestry  and  estate.  It  is  possible,  therefore,  that 
his  avoidance  of  the  social  life  of  Magdalen  may  have  been 
misinterpreted.  At  that  time  of  day  the  common  room 
was  the  sole  rendezvous  for  the  gentlemen  of  the  college. 
There  were  no  cricket  matches,  no  racing-boats,  no  athlet- 
ics, no  fives  or  rackets.  There  was  the  hunting-field, 
pigeon-shooting,  and  netting  the  rivers,  but,  so  far  as 
amusement  went,  the  fast  men  rode  and  drove,  while  the 
slow  men  trudged  diurnal  constitutionals  along  the  differ- 
ent roads.  At  Magdalen  there  were  seldom  more  than 
twenty  undergraduates  in  residence,  and  the  traditions  of 
the  college  almost  forbade  association  with  out-college 
men.  With  its  faults  and  virtues  Magdalen  kept  to  itself 
rigorously,  and  when  a  distant  cousin  who  was  in  residence 
at  Wadham  invited  Charles  Reade  to  dinner,  and  intro- 
duced him  to  his  friends — very  nice,  gentlemanly  fellows 
he  described  them  afterwards,  as  no  doubt  was  the  case — 
he  was  chagrined  and  surprised  beyond  expression  to  find 
that  the  Magdalen  Demy,  while  willing  to  recognize  a  re- 
lation belonging  to  another  college,  positively  declined  the 
acquaintance  of  Wadham  as  a  society  on  any  terms.  To 
reveal  an  open  secret,  the  Magdalen  Demies  were  by  no 
means  ambitious  of  the  company  of  strangers,  except  on 
rare  occasions.    They  formed  a  very  pleasant  little  coterie 


Undergraduate  Life.  Bl 

of  their  own,  and  disliked  its  being  disturbed.  "We  men- 
tion this  fact,  because  it  demonstrates  clearly  and  accounts 
for  the  small  influence  exercised  by  Oxford  on  the  mind 
and  temperament  of  Charles  Reade.  He  became  a  privi- 
leged member  of  a  small  and  exclusive  college.  With  his 
contemporaries  within  that  narrow  circle  he  had  few  af- 
finities, and  did  not  harmonize;  consequently,  he  lived  his 
own  life,  and  preserved  his  very  distinct  individuality  un- 
impaired. It  was  the  bitter  complaint  of  a  brilliant  Mag- 
dalen man  in  after- years  against  Oxford,  that  he  had  come 
to  it  inspired,  and  left  it  flattened  to  the  dead  level  of  a 
mediocre  average.  That  student,  however,  entered  vigor- 
ousl}''  and  industriously  into  the  studies  of  the  place.  He 
read  for  his  first,  and  his  mind  passed  through  a  severe 
training,  from  which  it  emerged,  as  he  put  it,  a  wreck. 
Not  so  Charles  Reade.  He  touched  academic  Oxford 
with  the  tips  of  his  fingers.  He  was  moulded  neither  by 
the  lecture-room,  the  midnight  oil,  nor  the  common  room. 
He  brought  to  Magdalen  Himself,  and  the  college  doubt- 
less assisted  his  brain  to  develop.  But  it  did  not  spoil 
him,  or  pare  off  those  angles  which  were,  perhaps,  as  the 
crystals  on  the  rock,  the  most  valuable  portions  of  his 
nature.  Had  he  been  sent  to  Eton  or  Harrow,  he  might 
have  learned  to  be  polished  and  commonplace ;  had  fate 
consigned  him  to  Balliol  he  might  have  adorned  the  first 
class,  and  become  Lord  Chancellor,  for  he  had  the  head  of 
a  lawyer.  He  was  destined  for  something  less  ephemeral. 
Lord  Brougham  is  reported  to  have  said  that  he  would 
rather  have  written  "  Pickwick  "  than  have  been  raised  to 
the  woolsack;  and,  if  we  may  say  so  inoffensively,  Lord 
Selborne,  Charles  Reade's  most  illustrious  contemporary 
among  the  Magdalen  Fellows,  who  absorbed  all  the  hon- 
ors that  Oxford  and  Winchester  liad  to  offer,  and  attained 


88  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

the  highest  apex  of  a  lawyer's  ambition,  will  be  forgotten 
when  "  Masks  and  Faces  "  is  remembered  and  played,  and 
its  author's  name  is  held  in  veneration.  That  is,  perhaps, 
a  humiliating  reflection  for  the  worshippers  of  divine 
average,  who  believe  that  labor  and  talent  transcend 
genius.  Time,  however,  shall  be  the  test,  and  if  the  author 
fails  to  survive  the  Lord  Chancellor,  his  authorship  will 
be  at  fault,  for  it  is  genius  alone  which  attains  to  that  hap- 
piness which  Solon  affirmed  would  not  commence  until 
after  death — the  happiness  of  literary  immortality.  We 
venture  to  prophesy  that  it  will  be  a  long  day  before  a 
Magdalen  brain  shall  conceive  another  Triplet,  or  create 
such  a  climax  as  the  Pictui'e  Scene.  Unless  mankind 
changes  fundamentally,  this  glorious  literary  achievement 
must  be  rated  higher  than  prize  poems,  prize  essays,  schol- 
arships, and  all  the  first-class  degrees  that  ever  have  gilded 
pretentious  mediocrity.  On  the  contrary,  our  conviction 
remains  that,  w  ith  the  spread  of  education,  the  wide  world 
of  thought  and  reading  will  command  the  mere  successful 
plodders  to  take  off  their  hats  in  the  presence  of  genius. 
Q;ui  vivra,  verra  I 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

ELECTED    FELLOW. 

Charles  Reade's  four  years  of  life  as  an  undergradu- 
ate Demy  of  Magdalen  were,  as  he  himself  phrased  it,  un- 
eventful. He  sucked  the  brains  of  Mr.  Robert  Lowe  and 
Mr.  Mills,  as  well  as  the  shelves  of  the  Union  Society. 
He  acquired  a  smattering  of  music,  and  learned  to  sing 
songs,  both  sentimental  and  comic,  malgri  a  rather  throaty 
voice.  He  picked  up  a  local  musician,  who  inspired  him 
with  something  appi'oxi mating  enthusiasm  for  the  violin. 
Although  cricket  at  the  time  was  almost  an  unknown  game 
in  the  University,  he  practised  batting  against  the  local 
professionals  to  such  purpose  that  ten  years  after  he 
knocked  the  giant,  Alfred  Mynn,  round  the  field  at  Liver- 
pool. His  contemporaries  voted  him  an  eccentric,  but 
yielded  his  intellect  homage.  His  long  curls  were  incom- 
prehensible, so  were  his  ideas.  Men  could  not  quite  un- 
derstand how  it  came  to  pass  that  a  youngster  who  could 
acquire  knowledge  without  an  effort,  and  might  have 
figured  in  the  first  class,  deliberately  preferred  fiddling 
and  dancing  to  Aristotle  and  Plato.  Plodding  industry,  of 
which  there  was  a  stratum  among  the  Demies,  took  offence, 
and  indolent  stupidity  was  envious.  In  the  end  both  or- 
ders of  student  agreed  to  vote  him  a  mystery.  He  was 
not  of  their  sort,  and  they  assumed  that  he  was  destined 
to  mount  to  the  skies  or  go  to  the  dogs,  probably  the  lat- 
ter.    President  Routh,  however,  held  him  in  the  highest 


90  Memoir  of  Charles  Iteade. 

estimation.  Mills,  the  light  of  the  college,  appraised  him 
as  a  youth  of  genius,  and  he  gained  the  regard  of  another 
whose  insight  into  character  was  throughout  his  brilliant 
career  more  than  remarkable. 

Samuel  Wilberforce  had  left  Oriel  disappointed,  mar- 
ried Miss  Serjeant,  and,  having  taken  Holy  Orders,  bad 
accepted  tbe  curacy  of  Cbeckenden — the  Chalken  Dene. 
The  Ipsden  estate  runs  into  Cbeckenden  parish,  so  John 
Reade,  who  bad  known  him  from  a  boy,  was  the  future 
bishop's  squire.  Samuel  Wilberforce,  as  is  generally 
known,  was  a  skilful  rider  and  an  ardent  lover  of  horse- 
flesh, and  he  doubtless,  as  a  young  curate,  was  not  a  little 
gratified  when  the  Squire  placed  his  stable  at  his  disposal, 
subject  to  one  condition,  that  he  would  never  keep  the 
horses  waiting,  a  rule  not  always  observed,  the  neglect  of 
which,  too,  evoked  the  smart  censure  of  Mr.  John  Reade, 
and  very  nearly  led  to  a  rupture  of  their  friendly  relations. 
Mrs.  Reade  also  was  unvaryingly  courteous  and  kindly  to 
the  interesting  curate  and  his  beautiful  but  delicate  wife, 
and  the  cordial  relations  then  established  terminated  only 
with  her  death.  It  was  almost  inevitable,  therefore,  that 
the  promising  Demy  of  Magdalen  should  in  the  vacations 
be  brought  into  social  relations  with  a  clergyman  who  was 
a  neighbor  and  a  man  of  brains.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Samuel  Wilberforce  affected  a  curious  interest  in  the 
young  Oxonian.  He  took  a  rapid  and  accurate  survey  of 
his  capacity,  and  they  might — in  spite  of  the  slight  dis- 
parity of  age — have  become  friends  had  they  possessed 
more  in  common.  As  it  was,  they  never,  in  spite  of  the 
embryo  bishop's  chilly  advances,  quite  found  a  middle 
term;  indeed,  from  first  to  last,  with  very  few  exceptions, 
Charles  Reade  fought  shy  of  clergymen.  Possibly  the 
social  life  of  Ipsden  may  have  created  this  antipathy. 


Elected  Fellow.  91 

Mrs.  Reade  was  perpetually  cultivating  bishops,  dons,  and 
professoi's.  Her  brother-in-law,  George  Stanley  Faber, 
was  reverenced  by  her  as  a  sort  of  deity,  though  his  man- 
ners were  peculiar  and  his  pronunciation  unutterable  York- 
shire. His  nephew,  who  rendered  the  name  of  Faber  for- 
ever illustrious,  was  as  Fellow  of  University  ^persona  grata 
at  Ipsden,  until  he  ventured,  in  defiance  of  his  uncle — who 
styled  him  invariably  in  common  conversation  "  that  uss 
(ass)  tnai  nephew  " — to  pose  as  Tractarian,  and  afterwards 
to  follow  Cardinal  Newman  across  the  Rubicon.  Then 
there  were  the  Oxford  dons,  who  came  to  Ipsden  partly  to 
air  their  importance,  and  still  more  to  partake  of  its  hos- 
pitality; and  the  local  clergy,  who  courted  the  lady  of  the 
open  house,  and  en  revatiche  tried,  not  always  successfully, 
to  snub  the  son.  It  was  perhaps  not  a  matter  for  wonder- 
ment that  this  same  son  imbibed  a  distaste  for  clerics  and 
ecclesiasticism. 

Yet  there  was  never  a  rule  without  an  exception. 
Among  the  divines  specially  aifected  by  his  mother  was 
Pearson,  Dean  of  Salisbury.  That  eminent  ecclesiastic 
had  two  clerical  sons,  whereof  the  elder,  Charles,  became 
afterwards  Rector  of  Knebworth,  by  favor  of  Lord  Lyt- 
ton.  This  gentleman  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  Ipsden, 
and  though  by  quite  five  years  the  senior  of  Charles 
Reade,  cultivated  his  acquaintance,  and  in  after-years  per- 
suaded him  to  become  his  frequent  guest.  He  was  of  all 
clerics  the  most  frigid  and  unsympathetic,  but  withal 
thoughtful  and  reticent — qualities  a  writer  would  natural- 
ly prefer  to  garrulity.  To  the  last  he  was  Charles  Reade's 
chief  clerical  friend,  a  condition  which  would  have  been 
impossible  had  they  not  assimilated  in  the  days  of  youth 
and  buoyancy. 

The  period  of  undergraduate  existence  passed  smoothly. 


02  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

and  ended,  if  dramatically,  none  tbe  less  propitiously.  As 
has  been  stated,  the  rule  of  the  college  was  that  a  Demy 
succeeded  only  to  a  Fellowship  on  his  particular  county, 
and  also  on  the  express  condition  that  he  had,  previously 
to  the  next  ensuing  St.  Mary  Magdalen's  day  after  the 
vacancy  occurred,  taken  his  degree.  In  the  early  summer 
of  1835,  when  Charles  Reade  was  of  sufficient  academic 
standing  to  graduate,  having  been  four  years  in  residence, 
such  a  vacancy  occurred  quite  unexpectedly  on  his  county 
— Oxfordshire.  As  it  happened,  however,  he  was  not  pre- 
pared for  his  great-go,  the  chief  examination,  and  yet  his 
chances  of  a  fellowship  hung  upon  his  satisfying  the  ex- 
aminers. Never  was  there  so  grave,  so  painful,  so  critical 
a  dilemma!  He  had  purposed  to  defer  the  ordeal  until 
after  the  long  vacation  ;  and  yet  his  whole  future  turned 
on  his  scraping  through  an  examination  for  which  he  had 
only  read  in  a  desultory  sort  of  fashion.  It  was  June,  and  he 
had,  at  a  day's  notice,  to  enter  his  name  on  one  of  two  lists 
— either  that  of  pass-men,  or  of  those  qui  honores  ambiunt, 
i.e.,  intending  honor-men.  The  regulations  then  prescribed 
that  the  pass-men  were  examined^rs^,  and  disposed  of  for 
good  or  evil.  This  occupied  about  three  weeks,  after 
which  the  honor  examination  commenced.  Now,  if 
Charles  Reade  had  put  down  his  name  for  a  pass,  he 
would  have  had  at  once  to  submit  to  the  ordeal  of  paper- 
work, and  in  all  human  probability  would  have  secured  an 
inevitable  rejection.  He  could  not  master  his  books  in  a 
few  hours,  and  though  the  pass  examination  was  light  and 
easy  as  compared  with  that  for  honors,  still  ignorance  of 
the  authors  offered  would  not  have  been  excused.  Con- 
sequently there  was  no  hope  for  it  but  in  a  bold  stroke, 
and  with  the  bait  before  him  of  a  provision  for  life  our 
author  did  not  hesitate.    He  entered  his  name  as  a  candi- 


Elected  Fellow.  93 

date  for  honors,  went  back  to  his  rooms,  and  set  to  work 
manfully  to  lick  his  chaotic  reading  of  the  past  few  years 
into  shape.  His  wildest  ambition  was  to  be  gulfed,  i.  e.,  re- 
duced to  the  level  of  a  simple  pass,  yet  awarded  a  testa- 
mur. Were  he,  however,  to  break  down  absolutely  in  any 
one  subject,  even  this  latitude  would  be  denied  him.  His 
task  seemed  simply  impossible,  and  wiseacres  prophesied 
the  Nemesis  of  fiddling  and  dancing.  Night  and  day,  day 
and  night,  with  bare  intervals  for  fool  and  sleep,  the 
youngster  of  brain-power  and  singular  concentration  stuck 
to  his  books.  He  had  to  carry  the  Ethics,  in  Greek  as 
well  as  English,  in  his  head;  to  translate  respectably  so 
many  plays  of  ^schyliis;  to  remember  the  text  and  mat- 
ter of  Thucydides  and  Herodotus;  to  render  Cicero  with 
Addisonian  English,  and  Addison  into  Ciceronian  Latin ; 
to  write  disquisitions  on  mental  and  moral  philosophy,  as 
well  as  on  ancient  history;  to  play  at  versifying  in  Latin 
and  Greek;  and  to  give  an  analysis  of  Anglican  theology, 
with  Bible  history />^i^s  Logic.  But  that  was  not  all.  The 
University  in  its  Avisdom  had  decreed  that  each  candidate 
should  repeat  by  heart  such  selections  from  the  Thirty- 
nine  Articles  of  Religion  in  the  Latin  version  as  the  ex- 
aminers might  require.  This  amounted  to  a  parrot-like 
exercise,  and  the  examinees  usually  deferred  committing 
such  dry  matter  to  memory  until  the  last  few  days  before 
the  schools.  It  was  considered  a  soi"t  of  hum.ane  knight- 
service  for  a  man's  friends  to  take  him  round  the  college 
walks — three  quarters  of  a  mile — and  cause  him  to  repeat 
these  thirty-nine  symbols  to  friendly  prompting.  The 
article  on  Predestination,  being  the  most  prolix,  was  the 
biggest  fence  to  be  surmounted,  and  examiners  of  a  ma- 
licious turn  were  suspected  of  an  undue  preference  for 
that  crabbed  piece  of  Latinity.     All  prudent  men,  not- 


94  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

withstanding,  while  devoting  especial  attention  to  the  Ar- 
ticulus  de  Pred^stinatione,  gorged  also  the  rest.  There  was 
then,  as  now,  no  accounting  for  the  caprices  of  examiners, 
and  a  man  who  knew  thirty-eight  articles  by  rote,  so  as  to 
be  able  to  repeat  them  verbatim  without  blinking,  might 
be  ruthlessly  rejected  for  his  ignorance  of  the  thirty- 
ninth. 

Charles  Reade,  following  in  this  particular  the  multi- 
tude to  do  evil,  procrastinated.  This  was  unwise,  for  he 
would  be  allowed  errors  in  his  ethics  or  plays,  but  not,  by 
a  silly  parodox,  in  the  all-precious  Thirty-nine  Articles. 
Hence,  when,  thirty-six  hours  before  the  examination,  he 
began  to  repeat  these  forty-save-one  tests  of  orthodoxy, 
memory,  and  scholarship  —  as  the  academic  pundits  im- 
agined them  to  bo — his  friends,  perceiving  how  hard  he 
found  it  to  learn  by  rote,  began  to  prophesy  his  collapse. 
But  the  worst  was  to  come.  Although  it  was  midsummer, 
the  terrible  strain  of  the  past  three  weeks  had  affected  his 
nerves.  Neuralgia  supervened,  his  face  swelled,  he  was 
wracked  with  agony,  and  positively  could  not  acquire  the 
Thirty-nine  Articles. 

"I  can  say  three  of  them,"  he  remarked  sadly  to  a 
friend,  as,  swelled  cheek  and  all,  he  marched  off  to  the 
schools  to  face  fate  and  the  examiners.  Slatter's  severity 
had  sickened  him  of  learning  by  heart,  and,  indeed,  in- 
capacitated him  for  an  exercise  wherein  the  stupidest  are 
commonly  the  most  proficient.  But  to  learn  against  the 
grain,  and  with  such  pain  as  seemed  to  crush  his  very  soul, 
that  was  impossible.  Nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  men 
out  of  every  thousand,  given  such  conditions,  would  have 
been  asked  any  and  every  ai'ticle  except  the  aforesaid 
three.  Charles  Reade,  however,  was  born  with  a  silver 
Bpoon  in  his  mouth.     Throughout  he  was  nothing  if  not 


Elected  Fellow.  95 

the  spoiled  child  of  fortune.  Incredible  as  it  reads,  it  is 
none  the  less  a  positive  fact,  that  he  was  required  to  re- 
peat one  of  those  magic  throe,  and  performed  this  tour  de 
force  with  such  aplomb  as  quite  to  satisfy  his  questioning 
Minos,  who  at  once  vaulted  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
Demy  whose  Fellowship  hung  in  the  balance  had  not  failed 
to  make  quite  sure  of  this  petty  test.  Had  he  suspected 
that  he  was  totally  ignorant  of  thirty-six  out  of  thirty-nine, 
the  result  would  have  been  different,  for  at  that  time 
of  day  the  reverence  for  oaths,  subscriptions,  ei  id  genus 
omne,  amounted  to  a  fetish.  "  Will  you,"  asked  the  Vice- 
Chancellor  of  Mr.  Theodore  Hook  of  St.  Mary  Hall,  when 
that  practical  joker  came  up  for  matriculation,  "  subscribe 
to  the  Thirty-nine  Articles,  sir  ?"  "  Forty,  if  you  wish 
it,"  was  the  glib  response,  and  the  extraordinary  solemni- 
ty of  this  empty  form  was  presei-ved  up  to  the  days  of 
Dr.  Cotton,  who  addressed  boys  from  school  as  though 
they  were  Ordination  Candidates,  and  the  shibboleths  they 
were  ready  to  subscribe  blindfold  were  safeguards  against 
heresy.  All  that  has  been  changed  since  those  da7S. 
Boys  are  no  longer  expected  to  be  theologians,  nor  St. 
Athanasius  protected  against  the  surreptitious  Arianisra 
of  the  playground.  In  1835,  however,  everybody  was  ex- 
pected to  think  in  the  same  groove  as  his  neighbor, 
whether  cleric  or  lay,  and  it  may  consequently  be  record- 
ed as  a  characteristic  of  the  Oxford  of  that  day  that  one 
of  her  most  brilliant  sons  would  have  lost  his  fellowship 
but  for,  in  plain  English,  a  lucky  fluke. 

The  aforesaid  turn  of  the  wheel  saved  him.  His  ethics 
were  respectable;  his  plays  at  his  fingers'  ends;  his  logic 
mastered;  his  prose  and  verse  fair;  his  essay,  of  course, 
brilliant.  It  was  no  question  of  plucking,  still  less  of 
gulfing,  but  rather  of  the  class  to  which  he  was  entitled 


90  Memoir  of  Charles  Beade. 

by  virtue  of  an  unequal,  yet  by  no  means  incompetent,  ex' 
amination. 

They  gave  him  a  third.  That  is  to  say,  he  took  as  good 
a  degree  as  Cardinal  Newman,  Archbishop  Thompson,  and 
Regius  Professor  Mozley.  Though  only  in  the  third 
class,  his  name  stands  forth  as  the  most  illustrious  of  the 
honor-men  of  that  year,  justifying,  indeed,  the  trite  para- 
dox that  the  third  class  has  beaten  the  first  —  in  the  race 
of  life. 

That  sufficed.  On  July  22, 1835,  he,  as  B.A.,  succeed- 
ed in  due  course  to  his  Fellowship,  his  first  year  being, 
nominally,  one  of  probation.  He  was  only  twenty-one, 
yet  academically  on  the  same  plane  with  Doctor  Daubeny, 
Roundell  Palmer,  and  Robert  Lowe.  He  elected  to  be- 
come a  law  Fellow,  and  prepared  with  that  intent  to  enter 
at  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  after  his  probationer  year  —  which 
entailed  residence — at  Magdalen  was  terminated,  to  eat  his 
terms  and  be  called  to  the  bar.  His  brother  Compton  had 
married  and  become  a  limb  of  the  law,  and  it  was  pre- 
supposed at  Ipsden  that  the  brothers  would  work  together 
for  their  mutual  advantage.  It  happened,  however,  that 
the  younger  of  the  two  had  other  aims.  The  law  was  to 
be  his  parergon  only,  his  ergon  literature,  albeit  as  yet 
neither  he  himself,  nor  his  friends,  nor  his  family  imag- 
ined that  fate  had  designated  him  for  anything  nobler 
than  chambers,  a  horsehair  wig,  and  perhaps  a  silk  gown. 
His  mother  alone  mentally  predicted  that  he  would  be  a 
second  Sir  Robert  Reade,  and  add  to  the  galaxy  of  fami- 
ly worthies  the  portrait  of  another  Chief -Justice.  Verily 
her  charity  was  of  that  sort  which  believeth  all  things  ! 


CHAPTER  IX. 

STUDIES    LAW. 

Having  attained  tlie  acme  of  most  men's  academical 
ambition,  a  Fellowship,  and  one  too  in  the  most  beautiful 
and  opulent  of  colleges,  our  author  had  the  choice  before 
him  of  three  professions — the  Bar,  the  Church,  or  Medi- 
cine. At  the  present  moment  a  Fellow  of  Magdalen  may- 
be non  -  prof  essional,  a  scholar  et  prmterea  nihil.  Such, 
however,  was  not  the  intention  of  the  pious  and  munifi- 
cent Founder,  who,  being  nothing  if  not  priestly,  imported 
a  small  element  of  jurisprudence  and  medicine  into  his 
college  simply  with  the  design  of  making  his  clerical  Fel- 
lows in  a  small  degree  conversant  with  these  two  sciences. 
Waynflete  has  been  accused  of  liberality,  a  compliment 
his  Church  would  consider  rather  back-handed,  because 
though  he  insisted  on  his  foundation  being  monkish,  he 
admitted  within  its  bosom  as  lay  monks  a  meagre  half 
dozen  amateur  lawyers  and  doctors.  A  glance  at  his  vol- 
ume of  statutes,  with  their  elaborate  regulations  concern- 
ing the  ritual  of  the  chapel  and  his  apparent  indifference, 
so  long  as  the  ritual  was  performed  in  scecula  smculoriim, 
whether  the  number  of  the  Fellows  was  few  or  many, 
would  dispel  this  illusion.  In  1835,  when  Charles  Reade 
was  elected  probationer,  the  mediaeval  statutes,  paradoxi- 
cally enough  in  all  respects  except  the  performance  of  the 
Founder's  favorite  ritual,  were  in  full  force,  and  when 
Parliament  subsequently  did  interfere,  a  cry  of  sacrilege 


98  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

was  raised  from  men  who  bad  never,  and  could  never,  obey 
the  Founder's  intentions  even  so  far  as  to  say  mass  for 
the  repose  of  his  soul,  and  for  the  souls  of  King  Henry  the 
Sixth,  Sir  Edmund  Rede,  Lord  de  Boarstal,  and  Sir  John 
Falstaff.  The  College  elevated  the  Founder's  statutes 
into  a  matter  of  principle,  because  they  wished  to  manip- 
ulate estates  to  suit  their  own  convenience  and  enrich 
themselves  individually.  In  those  days,  when  a  poor  liv- 
ing fell  vacant,  it  was  raised  to  a  thousand  a  year  out  of 
the  moneys  bequeathed  by  Waynflete  for  the  maintenance 
of  the  Chaplains,  Demies,  and  Clerks ;  and  when  a  lease 
ran  out,  a  heavy  fine  was  exacted  from  the  tenant  in  order 
to  put  ready  money  into  the  Fellows'  pockets,  the  man 
thus  mulcted  becoming,  however,  virtually  the  owner  of 
his  tenure  for  a  long  term  of  years.  In  order  to  put  a 
fair  gloss  on  such  very  equivocal  arrangements,  the  com- 
mon room  talked  bombastically  about  the  rights  of  the 
pious  Founder,  and  the  sin  of  traversing  them  ;  as  though 
they  had  not  been  really  abrogated  ever  since  the  Refor- 
mation, saving  for  three  short  weeks  in  the  reign  of  James 
the  Second,  when  the  Protestant  Foundation  was  expelled 
and  Papists  intruded!  Looking  back  on  the  career  of 
Charles  Reade,  it  is  tolerably  evident  that  the  Bar,  as  a 
profession,  was  to  him  valueless,  indeed,  it  may  have  been 
detrimental,  for  it  encouraged  that  spirit  of  litigiousness 
which  at  times  almost  embittered  his  existence.  It  was, 
however,  forced  upon  him.  The  rod  of  Mr.  Slatter,  and 
the  rather  Puritanical  simplicity  of  home,  had  caused  a 
mind  naturally  religious  to  revolt  from  religion,  at  all 
events  as  exemplified  by  the  section  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land to  which  his  mother  was  attached,  albeit  it  is  only 
fair  to  the  Evangelicals  of  that  day  to  add  that  he  be- 
lieved in  them  far  more  than  in  the  port-imbibing  High 


Studies  Law.  99 

Churchmen,  who  jobbed  away  the  college  property  with- 
out conscience  or  decency.  In  fact,  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  he  was  never  quite  a  jic^rsona 
grata  to  the  Fellows  of  Magdalen,  and  at  the  outset  his 
unpopularity  all  but  cost  him  his  Fellowship. 

The  rule  of  the  college  was  that  a  probationer  fellow 
should  reside  during  his  year  of  probation,  a  regulation 
which  lost  a  man  a  •year  at  the  Bar,  since,  not  being  a 
bird,  he  could  hardly  eat  his  dinners  at  Lincoln's  Inn  and 
pernoctate  at  Magdalen.  The  G.  W.  R.  in  those  days  was 
not  in  existence,  and  to  cover  a  long  fifty-six  miles  of  road 
between  dinner  and  bedtime  every  day  would  have  been 
a  feat  alike  expensive  and  fatiguing.  Most  lay  Fellows 
found  this  period  of  penal  residence  a  grievous  infliction. 
Too  young  to  enjoy  either  the  port  or  the  puns  of  the 
senior  common  room,  too  elastic  to  harmonize  with  men 
not  merely  their  seniors,  but  too  often  prematurely  senile 
owing  to  the  subtle  deterioration  of  lethargy  and  liquor, 
the  probationer  Fellows  must  have  voted  their  Fellowship 
an  illusion.  Nothing  to  do  and  money  to  do  it  with  is 
not  an  unmixed  blessing,  and  certainly  Charles  Reade,  a 
young  man  alike  eupeptic,  active,  and  adventurous,  felt 
bored  by  his  college,  and  out  of  tune  with  its  lotus-eating 
ethics.  The  year,  however,  passed,  and  after  that  he  was 
free  to  live  where  he  liked.  He  must  be  called  to  the  Bar, 
but  need  never  hold  a  brief,  and  might  refuse  to  hold  of- 
fice in  the  college  when  his  turn  came.  His  year  of  pro- 
bation expired  on  June  22d,  1836,  and  he  seems  to  have 
lost  not  a  moment  in  commencing  what  was  then  supposed 
to  be  the  business  of  his  life.  lie  entered  at  Lincoln's 
Inn  in  the  November  of  that  year.  The  subjoined  epistle 
to  his  fond  mother  gives  an  idea  of  his  earlier  impressions, 
and  at  all  events  possesses  the  merit  of  being  natural.     It 


100  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

is  addressed  from  the  chambers  of  Mr.  Charles  Waring 
Faber,  B.C.L.,  of  the  Chancery  Bar,  the  elder  son  of  the 
prophetical  Master  of  Sherburn  Hospital,  and  his  first 
cousin.  Mr.  Faber  was  a  most  charming  and  genial  gen- 
tleman, who  had  taken  honors  at  Oxford,  was  a  model  of 
industry,  a  professional  diner-out  in  an  age  when  conver- 
sation was  cultivated  as  an  adjunct  of  gastronomy,  and  a 
confirmed  bachelor.  He  rose  to  a  certain  level  in  his  pro- 
fession, but  never  beyond  it,  and  throughout  his  long  and 
meritorious  life  played  an  unostentatiously  charitable  part. 
Few  men  gave  away  so  liberally,  and  yet  were  so  little 
accredited  with  generosity.  He  seems  to  have  acted  elder 
brother  to  Charles  Reade  at  starting,  and  certainly  they 
were  cousinly  friends  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 
The  letter  to  Mrs.  Reade  runs  thus  : 

12  King's  Bench  Walk,  'izv.vix,  November  12, 1836. 
"My  DEAR  Mother, — I  am  at  length  initiated  in  these  mysteries  of 
Themis,  and  turned  loose  with  my  brain  on — smoke,  amidst  the  cabalistic 
wonders  of  the  law's  glorious  labyrinth.  My  companions  have  the  start 
of  me  by  six  months  of  actual  reading.  I  hope  you  opened  Edward's  let- 
ter. There  are  one  or  two  things  in  it  that  puzzle  mc :  he  insists  upon 
my  travelling,  without  telling  me  where  I  may  get  the  means  of  so  doing, 
and  talks  about  my  academical  fame  (!),  warning  me  against  resting  satis- 
fied with  tliat,  which  ought  to  be  but  an  earnest  of  my  future  career.  Now 
I  deprecate  sincerely  the  latter  part  of  this,  because  I  assent  so  fully  to  the 
former.  Mr.  Warren  has  gone  down  to  Cambridge  for  a  day  upon  some 
business,  and  before  he  returns  I  hope  to  catch  my  comrades  in  the  book 
we  are  studying :  from  what  I  see  of  the  study,  its  natural  effect  upon  the 
mind  must  be  to  improve  the  memory,  and  give  a  habit  of  attention  and 
strict  accuracy — for  every  particular  word  in  every  individual  sentence  has 
a  meaning  which  may  be  of  very  vital  importance,  so  that  you  soon  learn 
that  it  is  not  enough  to  glance  your  eye  over  the  propositions  and  possess 
yourself  of  their  general  meaning.  I  am  in  C.  F.'s  (Charles  Faber's)  rooms, 
and  shall  not  quit  them  immediately,  as  I  have  been  at  the  expense  of 
buying  keys.    I  am  waiting  too  to  see  whether  you  come  to  town  or  not. 


Studies  Law.  lOl 

Compton  sent  down  a  letter  containing  a  draft,  though  I  had  told  him  I 
was  about  to  return,  but,  n'mporte,  I  received  it  to-day,  and  it  is  of  no  use 
to  me  till  the  24th.  I  shall  go  and  call  on  the  Shepherds  and  Anderdons 
next  week,  D.V.,  if  I  can  find  them.  It  is  getting  so  dark  that  I,  having 
no  candle,  must  conclude,  with  a  promise  to  write  better  next  time. 

"  Your  affectionate  son,  Charles  Reade, 

"  Saturday  Eve. 

"  P.  S. — I  think  Norfolk  Street  may  very  likely  be  my  habitation,  where 
the  lodgings  are  good  and  cheap.  I  am  determined  to  get  to  the  bottom 
of  the  Snow  mystery  to-morrow,  by  the  aid  of  the  pew-opener." 

This  last  sentence  constitutes  in  itself  a  mystery  not 
destined  to  be  unravelled.  There  was  a  family  of  the 
name  of  Snow  at  Bibury,  near  Sir  John  Reade's  residence, 
on  the  borders  of  Gloucestershire,  who  were  interested  in 
the  ill-starred  banking  firm  of  Strahan,  Paul,  &  Bates, 
but  whether  the  party  named  Snow  here  darkly  alluded 
to  was  one  of  the  Gloucestershire  Snows  must  remain  the 
subject  of  conjecture. 

Within  three  weeks  from  the  date  of  the  above  letter 
to  his  mother  there  followed  one  to  his  father,  redolent  of 
the  pedantry  of  Oxford,  and  written  in  so  artificial  a  style 
as  to  be  almost  ludicrous.  In  addressing  "  My  dear  Fa- 
ther "  the  youngest  son  adopts  the  distant  attitude  of  the 
diplomatist.  It  is  not  indeed  a  letter  at  all,  but  a  formal 
essay,  inspired  partly  by  Addison's  Walk  and  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley,  partly  by  the  Aldrich,  Aristotle,  and  Plato 
lectures  of  his  college,  and  emanating  in  no  sense  from 
himself.  One  can  but  smile  as  one  reads  how  the  junior 
Fellow  suggests  that  his  sire  should  begin  by  defining  hap- 
piness. This  alone  brings  back  the  jargon  of  the  lecture- 
room,  so  stereotyped  that  the  same  words,  the  same  phrases 
and  illustrations,  were  passed  on  from  tutor  to  pupil,  and 
when  the  pupil  became  tutor,  he  in  turn  passed  it  on  to 


102  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

other  pupils.  The  conclusion,  by-thc-bye,  reminds  us  of 
the  juvenile  town-mouse  inviting  the  venerable  country- 
mouse  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  urban  granaries.  Doubtless 
the  old  Squire  was  tempted  by  this  picture  to  emerge 
from  the  solitude  of  Ipsden.  Some  four  years  later  he 
actually  did  descend  on  the  metropolis  to  see  the  young 
Queen  open  Parliament.  It  was  cold,  and  the  Squire  not 
only  surmounted  himself  with  two  great  -  coats,  but  also 
with  a  huge  cloak.  Underneath  four  garments,  therefore, 
and  in  the  fob  of  his  trousers  was  his  watch,  and  in  the 
breast-pocket  of  coat  number  one,  his  purse.  The  crush 
to  see  the  show  was  so  great  that  the  party  could  not 
drive  up  to  the  rooms  in  Palace  Yard,  where  they  had 
secured  seats,  but  had  to  walk  some  two  hundred  yards 
along  the  pavement.  This  proceeding  took  about  twenty 
minutes,  during  which  brief  period  the  Squire  was  relieved 
of  his  purse.  One  would  have  imagined  that  he  would 
have  been  mdignant.  Not  so.  The  old  gentleman,  chair- 
man, by-the-bye,  of  the  Henley  Petty  Sessions,  was  vexed, 
but  quite  for  another  cause.  It  was  because  he  could  not 
discover  the  thief.  "  I  profess,"  he  said,  "  that  this  must 
be  the  identical  thief  who  robbed  me  twenty  years  ago. 
No  one  else  could  have  been  so  adroit.  If  I  could  find  the 
fellow,  I'd  give  him  a  ten -pound  note  for  his  cleverness." 
And  this  was  not  affectation.  The  fine  old  gentleman  re- 
sembled his  son  Charles  in  that  he  positively  revelled  in 
a  startling  paradox.  The  following  is  the  epistle  to  which 
we  refer.     It  is  under  date  of  November  26,  1836. 

"  89  CuANOKUY  Lank. 
"  My  dear  Fathkh, — The  most  ancient  strife  that  ever  I  heard  of  is  the 
war  between  wave  and  roclc  upon  the  Shore  of  River  or  Sea,  so  often  com- 
memorated by  Poets  of  every  class ;  but  next  to  this  I  think  (for  it  is  a 
rivalry  many  hundred  years  old)  is  the  competition  between  Town  and 


Studies  Law.  103 

Country,  each  of  which,  as  heretofore,  still  claims  for  itself  to  be  called 
the  dwelling-place  of  human  happiness  ;  and,  hacked  as  they  have  been  by 
so  long  a  warfare,  both  still  employ  the  weapons  which  gleamed  in  their 
very  first  encounter.  Intellectual  improvement  is  pitted  against  Healthy 
'prime  blessing  of  all,'  'Wit'  on  the  one  hand  is  met  by  'Innocence'  on 
the  other;  and  if  this  competition  advances  with  the  promise  of  pleasures 
glowing,  keen,  and  various,  the  other  is  not  backward  to  proffer  such  as 
are  less  apt  to  be  followed  by  pain  and  regret:  these  are  the  old  topics, to 
which  I  add  a  less  common  item  of  comparison,  viz.,  that  in  the  Country 
there  are  fewer  tempters  and  temptations  in  the  week ;  in  the  Town  more 
Jeremiahs  to  thunder  over  your  conscience  on  the  Sabbath.  He  who 
would  decide  this  question,  with  mankind  taken  generally  for  its  subject, 
must  begin  with  settling  the  definition  of  earthly  happiness  and  the  means 
of  acquiring  and  keeping  it,  points  of  discussion  which,  after  severely  try- 
ing the  wisdom  of  the  Ancient  World,  were  by  it  left  undecided;  or  else 
he  must  approach  the  discussion  in  that  noble  spirit  of  self-confidence 
which  foreruns  a  notable  disgrace  almost  invariably ;  but,  if  you  put  com- 
monplace people  out  of  consideration,  the  difficulty  in  my  mind  is  dimin- 
ished by  §ths,  or,  rather,  jo^^ths,  which  I  believe  is  about  the  proportion 
of  Men  of  Ability  to  the  Mass :  in  the  Country  the  intellects  of  Men  are 
stagnant  and  putrescent,  they  dawdle  in  their  thinking  as  they  do  in  ev- 
erything else :  an  hour  and  a  half  at  a  meal,  three  hours  and  a  quarter 
consumed  in  a  ride  of  twelve  or  thirteen  miles,  and  after  dinner  the  hours 
they  sit  with  little  or  hardly  any  interchange  of  thought,  and  then  after 
tea  they  go  to  bed  and  pass  the  night  in  a  weakly  sleep,  as  they  did  the 
day  in  an  unrefrcshing  doze.  Here  a  man  so  clearly  sees,  by  looking  out 
of  a  window  for  10  seconds,  that  if  he  dawdles  he  will  be  distanced,  that 
he  cannot  help  shaking  himself.  Then  the  information  which  one  imbibes 
almost  involuntarily  at  every  pore  merely  by  being  in  the  Metropolis !  I 
have  observed  at  Oxford  that  if  we  entertained  at  our  table  a  Metropolitan, 
he  was  sure,  if  conversable,  to  be  the  star  of  the  company :  in  that  very 
common  topic.  Politics,  he  was  sure  to  be  very  superior  because  he  knew 
a  number  of  matters  such  as  either  slowly  or  not  at  all  travel  into  the 
country,  but  which  throw  a  light  upon  the  state  and  intention  of  parties ; 
he  had  picked  up  some  little  things  the  editors  of  newspapers  did  not 
know  or  had  not  the  wit  to  think  important:  he  had  been  present  and 
heard  the  Speech  in  question  and  begged  leave  to  correct  The  Standard, 
which  he  thought  he  could  with  the  more  effect  if  he  just  hinted  at  a  the- 
ory that  paper  wished  to  establish,  by  misrepresentation,  if  no  other  way 


104  Memoir  of  Charles  Beade. 

appeared.  Londoner — '  Mrs.  Norton  has  a  poem  in  the  press,  Lady  S.  a 
novel  which  she  has  paid  H d  a  hundred  pounds  to  puff  in  The  Quar- 
terly^ and  Gait  has  a  rival  "  Curiosities  of  Literature  "  to  D'lsracli's  com- 
ing out.'  Country  M. — '  You  don't  say  so !  Why,  I  have  seen  in  none  of 
the  Litera —  L. — '  No,  I  dare  say  not,  but  though  I  am  not  a  literary 
man  I  generally  hear  what  is  going  on,  whether  I  will  or  no,  from  some 
friend  who  writes  in  the  Reviews  or  from  literary  gossips  of  one  kind  or 
another,  a  long  time  before  the  Newspapers  are  told.'  In  this  way  a 
Dunce  from  London  attracts  and  deserves  a  certain  degree  of  respect: 
London  the  Focus  of  Intellect  and  virtue,  the  very  heart  of  this  great  king- 
dom, the  seat  of  legislature,  the  Throne  of  Pleasure,  the  place  where  ev- 
erything that  affects  the  condition  of  Britain  seems  to  begin — Opinion, 
fashion,  luxury,  comfort,  knowledge.  Law.  If  I  had  not  been  an  Egotisti- 
cal dog,  my  dear  father,  I  should  have  told  you  in  fewer  words  that  I  am 
satisfied  with  my  situation ;  and  reserved  more  paper  to  let  you  know  that 
the  same  place  is  well  adapted  to  your  present  condition.  Ever  since  I 
have  known  you  you  have  divided  your  time  between  the  business  or  pleas- 
ure of  the  fields  and  an  easy,  diffusive  sort  of  reading,  but  if  I  were  asked 
which  way  your  literary  taste  ran,  I  should  say  for  amusing  and  iUustialive 
antiquities  and  for  a  kind  of  'curiosities  of  knowledge.'  As  for  a  time 
your  range  of  Agricultural  employment  is  narrowed,  embrace  your  other 
resource  more  closely,  and  make  it  supply  the  want  of  the  other.  This  is 
a  place  where  'curiosities  of  knowledge'  may  be  gleaned  by  handfuls  in 
more  than  one  way :  they  may  be  gained  by  reading  curious  and  scarce 
books  which  you  could  not  find  elsewhere ;  or  they  may  be  seen  in  abun- 
dance in  the  course  of  a  single  walk  in  this  wonderful  city.  What,  for  in- 
stance, can  be  more  curious,  interesting,  wonderful,  than  the  mysteries  of 
trade  and  commerce ;  the  practical  and  speculative  skill  of  persons  em- 
ployed in  its  different  parts ;  the  lading  and  unlading  of  ships,  the  appear- 
aTice  of  the  various  cargoes,  the  Division  of  labor,  the  arrival  of  precious 
freights  from  every  part  of  the  Globe,  which  owns  no  country  that  does  not 
pour  its  riches  into  the  bosom  of  our  favored  land ;  the  various  Galleries 
of  pictures  to  which  additions  have  been  made  since  you  have  seen  them, 
the  works  of  the  old  masters,  which  improve  upon  the  sight  and  are  always 
new ;  the  Museum,  to  which  Compton  can  admit  you  and  where  you  may 
read  books  that  you  never  could  anywhere  else :  The  courts  of  justice, 
where  you  may  see  the  working  of  our  glorious  system  ?  I  could  enumer- 
ate more  objects  of  interest,  and  yet  I  know  little  of  London ;  and  I  dare 
Bay  I  have  omitted  many  things  that  you  remember.    With  regard  to  the 


Studies  Law.  105 

atmosphere,  as  it  does  not  affect  me,  I  am  no  judge  further  than  this,  that 
in  all  candor  I  know  no  time  of  the  year  in  which  town  and  country  are 
more  upon  a  par  than  this :  in  fact  my  experience  of  a  London  and  Scot's 
common  fog  drives  me  to  a  vulgar  proverb,  though  not  inappropriate,  as  it 
too  is  founded  on  an  observation  of  a  Natural  Phenomenon :  viz.,  '  There 
is  no  choice  amongst  rotten  apples '!!!!!!!  There  have  been,  I  believe, 
only  two  fogs  since  I  have  been  here,  and  November  is  the  misty  month. 
We  shall  be  a  jolly  party  if  3'ou  come  up.  You  will  have  me  in  the  even- 
ing, and  doubtless  renew  your  acquaintance  with  many  pleasing  friends : 
Love  to  Ellen,  Your  Dutiful  Son,  Charles  Reade." 

Of  Charles  Reade's  career  as  a  law  student  we  have  but 
scanty  records,  and  those  of  slender  interest.  Among  his 
legal  acquaintances  of  the  epoch  were  Chief-Justice  Sir 
N.  Tindale,  Mr.  Benjamin  Shaw,  Q.  C,  Mr.  Justice  Lush, 
Mr,  Edwin  James,  Q,  C,  and  M,  P.,  and  Vice  -  Chancellor 
Shadwell.  It  was  a  curious  coincidence  that  his  first  in- 
structor in  law  should  have  been  Samuel  Warren,  author 
subsequently  of  "Ten  Thousand  a  Year."  One  might 
have  presupposed  that  there  would  have  been  an  alnaost 
perfect  assimilation  between  the  brain  that  conceived 
Tittlebat  Titmouse  and  that  which  evolved  Triplet.  Yet, 
sad  to  relate,  the  two  of  a  trade  failed  to  agree,  and  after 
a  year  of  Mr.  Samuel  Warren,  Charles  Reade  shifted  his 
seat  to  the  chambers  of  Mr.  Matthew  Fortescue,  a  warm 
friend  of  his  brother  ;  and  then — to  reveal  an  ugly  secret 
— dropped  the  law  altogether  for  some  years.  In  fact, 
though  he  entered  at  Lincoln's  Inn  in  1836,  he  was  not 
called  to  the  bar  until  1 842. 
5* 


CHAPTER   X. 

"  MAGDALEN." 

After  Charles  Reade  had  been  admitted  actual  Fellow, 
a  certain  Dr.  Sewell,  brother  of  the  Founder  of  Radley 
College,  and  of  the  Warden  of  New  College,  claimed  a 
lay  Fellowship  in  his  stead.  Had  the  claim  succeeded  our 
author  would  have  had  to  take  Anglican  Orders,  or  be 
ejected  from  his  Fellowship.  In  his  MS.  he  gently  de- 
scribes what  was  really  a  very  barefaced  attempt  to  jockey 
him.  "  There  are  only  six  lay  Fellowships  out  of  forty  in 
Magdalen  College,"  he  writes,  "  and  I  claimed  one.  Mr. 
Sewell,  a  Queen's  Counsel,  about  to  succeed  to  a  Fellow- 
ship, claimed  it  too,  on  the  score  of  his  being  of  higher 
standing  in  the  University  (^.  e.,  not  as  a  Fellow).  The 
matter  turned  on  the  interpretation  of  a  statute;  the  col- 
lege officers,  by  a  majority  of  one,  decided  in  favor  of 
Sewell.  I  appealed  to  the  Visitor.  The  Visitor  directed 
the  case  to  be  heard  before  him.  Neither  side  employed 
counsel.  I  was  victorious,  and  won  my  first  litigation  out 
of  eighteen,  and  retain  my  Fellowship  to  this  day." 

This  tells  only  half  the  story.  President  Routh,  at  first 
adverse,  was  won  by  his  masterly  argument  over  to  his 
side.  The  Visitor  was  the  Bishop  of  Winchester,  Dr.  Sum- 
ner, his  mother's  friend;  who,  however,  to  be  quite  im- 
partial, referred  the  case  to  his  legal  assessor.  The  col- 
lege was  so  indignant  at  their  decision  being  overruled 
that  they  passed  a  vote  allowing  Dr.  Sewell  to  retain  his 


''MagdalenP  107 

Fellowship  as  a  layman.  Had  Charles  Readc  lost,  he  would 
have  had  to  be  ordained,  or  retire.  A  diffei*ent  measure 
was  meted  to  Sewell,  the  plain  truth  being  that  he  was 
popular  with  the  common  room.  In  this  college  kissing 
has  always  gone  by  favor,  and  the  alumnus  who  is  not  so 
fortunate  as  to  obtain  its  favor  must  expect  that  sort  of 
dissimulated  love  which  proverbially  kicks  its  recipient 
down-stairs.  It  may  be  remarked,  passim,  that  the  boast- 
ed Founder's  statutes  were  cast  to  the  four  winds  when 
the  interest  of  a,2)erso7ia  grata  chanced  to  be  jeopardized. 
It  is  to  be  hoped  that  this  spirit  of  partiality  has  died  a 
natural  death. 

It  was  between  the  adverse  decision  of  his  unrighteous 
judges  of  the  common  room  and  the  reversal  of  this  act 
of  attempted  injury  that  an  episode  occurred  in  the  life  of 
Charles  Reade  which  may  perhaps  provoke  a  smile.  It 
was  suggested  to  him  by  President  Routh  that  if  he  chose 
to  abandon  the  law  and  take  his  degree  in  medicine,  the 
college,  which  was  determined  that,  right  or  wrong,  Dr. 
Sewell  should  pose  as  one  of  their  law  Fellows,  might  gra- 
ciously permit  him  to  hold  a  lay  Fellowship.  Perceiving 
that  nearly  all  Magdalen  was  against  him,  and  naturally 
being  most  unwilling  to  lose  his  Fellowship,  Charles  Reade 
went  to  Edinburgh  to  ascertain  whether  he  could  over- 
come his  strong  prejudice  against  the  dissecting  room  and 
theatre.  He  thought  he  would  begin  with  the  latter  as 
being  possibly  the  less  severe  ordeal  to  his  sensibilities,  if 
not  to  his  stomach.  The  experiment  was  not  destined  to 
succeed.  He  forced  himself  to  enter  the  operating  thea- 
tre, and  saw  a  man  bled.  This  was  enough.  Staggering 
to  the  door,  he  fainted  away,  and  left  Edinburgh,  veneseO' 
tion,  and  horrors  to  people  of  a  tougher  fibre  and  a  more 
material  nature.     Had  it  not  been  for  the  good  Bishop  of 


108  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

Winchester,  and  had  Medicine  offered  the  only  medium 
whereby  he  could  retain  his  Fellowship,  Charles  Reade 
would  have  succumbed  to  fraud  rather  than  have  escaped 
at  the  cost  of  his  moral  and  mental  cuticle.  As  the  event 
proved,  he  was  avenged  by  a  prelate  who  assuredly  never 
more  thoroughly  magnified  his  office  than  when  ho  defeat- 
ed a  common-room  conspiracy;  and  from  henceforward 
till  his  last  breath  the  subject  of  this  memoir  drew  his  ali- 
mony from  an  unwilling  and  unsympathetic  college. 

He  was,  however,  though  victorious,  none  the  less  dis- 
gusted. His  enemies  were  they  of  his  own  household,  and 
he  felt  that  they  need  not  have  been  in  such  a  hurry  to 
decide  against  one  who  might  yet  do  their  body  credit. 
The  consciousness,  however,  of  being  out  of  place  in  the 
society  of  which  he  was  a  member  drove  him  afield.  He 
might  have  lapsed  into  a  mere  Oxford  don.  As  it  was,  he 
roamed  abroad  to  learn  in  Paris  the  rudiments  of  dramatic 
art  and  educate  himself  for  the  profession  of  letters.  Ilia 
enemies  by  their  very  malignity  had  done  him  a  good  turn. 
They  saved  him  from  Magdalen. 

That  institution,  for  some  time  after  this  episode,  sel- 
dom saw  him  except  on  urgent  business  ;  albeit,  the  first 
occasion  that  took  him  to  Oxford,  after  the  Sewell  trial, 
terminated  in  a  way  very  gratifying  to  himself. 

A  certain  Mr.  Viner  founded  scholarships  and  fellow- 
ships in  law  open  to  the  whole  University.  The  Masters 
of  Arts  were  the  electors  to  the  scholarships,  and  a  scholar 
in  due  course  became  a  Fellow  for  a  term  of  years.  Prac- 
tically the  man  who,  being  otherwise  eligible,  i.  e.,  a  grad- 
uate, a  barrister,  and  a  layman,  could  command  the  most 
votes,  had  the  best  chance  of  success.  Charles  Reade,  on 
a  vacancy  occuiTing,  resolved  to  offer  himself  as  a  candi- 
date.    In  the  coaching  daj^s  M.  A.'s  could  not  so  easily 


^^Magdal&iiP  109 

crowd  to  Oxford  as  at  present,  and  the  election  was  usu- 
ally determined  by  the  votes  of  the  residents,  for  the  most 
part  college  tutors  and  Fellows.  It  occurred  to  him  that 
the  county  might  swamp  the  University,  and  his  father's 
influence  in  the  shire  may  be  estimated  by  the  one  fact  of 
his  having  been  twice  invited  to  represent  it  in  the  Tory 
interest.  His  college  might  not  accord  him  its  support, 
albeit  there  was  a  sort  of  code  of  honor  prohibitive  of  op- 
position to  a  member  of  the  society.  But  for  once  he 
could  dispense  with  it.  The  noblemen  and  gentlemen  of 
Oxon  and  Berks,  who  happened  to  be  Masters  of  Arts, 
readily  promised  their  votes  and  interest  to  the  son  of  Mr. 
Reade  of  Ipsden.  His  mother  canvassed  the  clergy,  and 
where  favorable  answers  were  obtained  offered  convey- 
ances free  of  cost.  On  the  day  of  election  Oxford  swarmed 
with  squires  and  parsons  whipped  up  for  Charles  Reade, 
and  thus  when  he  came  in  head  of  the  poll  by  a  substan- 
tial majority,  some  chagrin  found  expression  within  the 
bosom  of  his  college. 

Charles  Reade  felt,  and  with  reason,  that  he  had  admin- 
istered a  practical  rebuff  to  his  friends  the  enemies  in 
Magdalen,  so  by  way  of  enjoying  their  discomfiture  did  a 
deed  his  soul  usually  abhorred,  viz.,  put  in  an  appearance 
at  the  solemn  High-Table  dinner. 

They  drank  his  health  in  the  college  brown-sherry  with 
the  regulation  formal  courtesy.  The  etiquette  of  the  High 
Table  demanded  that  a  victory  for  the  society  should  be 
recognized,  and  the  victor  congratulated. 

Soon,  however,  the  nasty  animus  beneath  the  surface 
began  to  crop  up. 

"It  is  all  very  fine,  Reade,"  said  one  of  them,  whose 
tongue  was  less  guarded  than  that  of  the  majority,  "but 
you  know  you  have  displaced  two  better  men  than  yourself." 


110  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

It  is  easy  to  imagine  the  susurrus  of  sarcastic  laughter 
that  encircled  the  table  as  Charles  Reade  was  thus  rudely 
challenged.  Said  he  quietly,  "  No  ;  better  scholars,  not 
better  men." 

"  IIow  so  ?"  was  the  cutting  rejoinder. 

"  The  Vinerian,"  replied  Charles  Reade,  "  is  a  law  schol- 
arship, and  law  is  a  practical  sort  of  science.  Now  the 
way  in  which  my  canvass  was  organized  and  carried  out 
was  rather  unusual,  but  it  argues  a  talent  of  the  practical 
kind  superior  to  that  of  my  competitors.  The  University 
in  its  wisdom  has  chosen  right." 

The  High  Table  as  a  whole  may  not  have  endorsed  this 
apologia  of  the  successful  candidate,  but  some  of  the  best 
minds  of  the  college  had  the  wit  to  perceive  the  rising 
star.  Among  them  may  be  mentioned  Bulley,  successively 
Senior  Tutor,  and  President ;  Newman,  the  wit  of  the 
college ;  Fisher,  the  present  Senior  Fellow,  for  whom,  as 
being  a  gentleman,  Charles  Reade  to  the  last  professed 
the  warmest  regard  ;  Bloxam,  the  antiquarian  ;  and  Moz- 
ley,  leader-writer  to  the  Times,  and  afterwards  Regius 
Professor  of  Divinity.  To  this  honorable  list  must  be 
added  the  names  of  Dr.  Daubeny,  the  exploiter  of  the 
atomic  theory;  and  Mr.  Edwards,  the  mathematical  tutor. 
As  for  President  Routh,  his  regard  for  Charles  Reade  was 
BO  thorough  that  when  he  received  from  the  Vice-Chan- 
cellor  of  the  University  of  Cambridge  a  request  to  name 
one  of  the  Fellows  of  Magdalen  as  a  recipient  of  the  de- 
gree of  M.A.,  honoris  causa,  in  that  University,  on  the 
occasion  of  the  installation  of  Prince  Albert  as  its  Chan- 
cellor, he  at  once  sent  in  his  name,  and  this,  be  it  remem- 
bered, before  he  had  written  a  line.  The  few  men  of 
brains  whom  the  institution  at  that  period  could  boast 
already  began  to  appreciate  the  future  author.     It  was 


''Magdalen^  111 

the  scum  of  the  college  that  formed  itself  into  a  hostile 
clique,  and  throughout  endeavored  to  render  Magdalen  an 
impossible  place  of  residence  for  a  gentleman,  who,  though 
physically  robust,  was  excessively  sensitive. 

In  1845  the  office  of  Dean  of  Arts,  tenable  for  a  year, 
fell  in  due  course  to  Charles  Reade's  option.  He  deter- 
mined to  refuse  it,  albeit  by  such  refusal  he  would  have 
forfeited  the  Vice-Presidency  when  his  turn  came,  the 
regulation  being  that  a  Fellow  must  take  all  the  college 
offices  in  succession,  or  abandon  his  claim  to  them.  More- 
over, the  Dean  of  Arts  would  probably  enjoy  the  privilege 
of  nominating  a  Demy,  i.  e.,  of  making  some  fortunate  gen- 
tleman a  present  of  an  annuity  for  life,  commencing  at 
about  sixty,  and  ending  with  six  hundred,  a  year.  Under 
the  circumstances,  to  decline  the  office  of  Dean  of  Arts 
was  not  quite  worldly-wise  ;  but  it  entailed  residence,  and 
Charles  Reade  had  no  ambition  of  stepping  into  a  hornet's 
nest.  Eventually,  at  the  urgent  solicitation  of  his  brother 
William,  who  promised  to  come  and  share  his  rooms,  he 
reluctantly  assented ;  and  Mr.  Goldwin  Smith,  who  at 
that  time  was  a  resident  undergraduate  Demy,  has  put  on 
record  his  feelings  of  astonishment  when  the  college  offi- 
cer, responsible  for  the  moral  conduct  of  the  students, 
appeared  on  the  scene  clad  in  a  bright  green  coat  with 
brass  buttons.  This  habiliment  seems  to  have  affected 
lastingly  the  professorial  mind  of  Mr.  Goldwin  Smith, 
who  possibly  may  still  attribute  the  baptism  of  his  crony, 
John  Conington,  under  the  college  pump  to  the  laxity  of 
discipline  encouraged  by  so  grievous  a  decadence  from  his 
canons  of  sartorial  propriety.  Anyhow,  during  Charles 
Reade's  year  of  deanery  poor  John  Conington  did  suffer 
an  involuntary  immersion  at  the  hands  of  the  Demies  and 
Gentlemen-Commoners,  his  offence  being  that  he  had  en- 


112  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade.  , 

deavored  to  launch  a  debating  society  within  the  college 
walls.  Both  he  and  his  friend,  Mr,  Goldwin  Smith,  took 
such  dire  umbrage  at  this  indignity  that  they  migrated  to 
University  College.  From  a  purely  academical  point  of 
view  Magdalen  sustained  thereby  an  irreparable  loss.  An 
offence  of  that  sort,  however,  would  have  to  be  dealt  with 
by  the  Vice-President,  and  not  by  the  Dean  of  Arts,  so 
that  the  don  in  the  green  coat  with  brass  buttons  could 
not  fairly  be  held  to  blame.  Whether  these  riotous  young 
gentlemen  were  emboldened  by  the  spectacle  of  Lincoln 
or  pea-green  on  the  body  of  a  dean  may  be  open  to  dis- 
cussion. Green,  we  know,  is  as  revolutionary  a  color  in 
Ireland  as  is  red  in  France.  At  that  time  of  his  life,  how- 
ever, Charles  Reade  was  a  harmless  Tory.  He  strove  to 
propitiate  the  Fellows  by  playing  whist  in  their  common 
room.  He  evoked  the  enthusiasm  of  the  manly  under- 
graduates by  his  prowess  with  the  willow  on  Cowley 
Marsh.  He  fished  the  Cherwell  with  a  casting-net,  and 
started  archery  in  the  grove,  and  bowls  on  the  lawn.  He 
could  not  smoke,  or  imbibe  the  traditional  port,  but  he 
gave  charming  little  dinner-parties,  at  one  of  which  the 
guests  were  surprised  to  find  an  entire  hare  placed  before 
each  of  them,  in  order,  as  their  host  phrased  it,  that  no 
one  should  quarrel  with  his  neighbor  about  the  back.  He 
devoured  books  in  the  Bodleian,  and  occasionally  would 
astonish  the  home  circle  at  Ipsden  by  dropping  in  to  eight- 
o'clock  breakfast  after  a  seventeen  miles'  walk.  He  did 
not  enjoy  it  all,  but  endured  it  with  the  constancy  of  a 
martyr,  while,  so  far  as  the  common  room  went,  he  escaped 
any  positive  friction.  Their  little  sarcasms  and  sly  in- 
nuendoes could  not  penetrate  his  crust  of  calm,  impas- 
sive, unuttering  indifference ;  and  in  the  end  they  voted 
Reade  an  incomprehensible  man,  who  in  their  judgment 


"Magdalen^  113 

was  not  quite  so  negative  as  they  had  presupposed  him 
to  be. 

Now  comes  the  oddest  incident  of  this  not  very  event- 
ful year.  As  Dean  of  Arts  he  had  a  Demyship  at  his  dis- 
posal, and  alone  of  all  college  officers  since  a.d.  1460, 
when  the  first  Demies  were  admitted,  positively  declined 
to  nominate. 

Was  this  electoral  purism  ?  "Was  it  perversity  ?  Was 
it  sheer  eccenti'icity  ?  It  may  be  ascribed  to  none  of 
these  motives,  but  simply  to  the  circumstance  of  none  of 
the  candidates  commending  themselves  to  him.  He  would 
not  import  into  the  college  any  one  of  whose  merit,  intel- 
lectual and  social,  he  did  not  feel  conscientiously  assured. 
That  was  all. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  canvassed.  Sir  John  Chandos 
Reade,  Bart.,  of  Shipton  Court,  the  head  of  his  family, 
wrote  in  right  royal  style  to  command  him  to  nominate 
one  of  his  young  friends.  Then  the  son  of  that  Mr. 
Slatter,  of  Rose  Hill,  to  whom  he  was  indebted  for  many 
a  wheal  on  his  young  body,  entered  as  a  candidate,  and 
Charles  Reade  was  urged  to  remember  tlie  benefits  he 
had  received  from  diurnal  flagellation,  and  make  a  hand- 
some return  for  the  moral  elevation  resulting  therefrom. 
Unfortunately  for  the  pecuniary  interest  of  the  amiable 
gentlemen  thus  pressed  on  the  notice  of  the  Dean  of 
Arts,  he  was  not  easily  to  be  influenced.  He  averred  that 
he  would  neither  disregard  tlie  mandate  of  the  head  of 
his  ancient  family,  nor  prefer  another  to  the  son  of  his 
whilom  flagellant.  He  should  therefore  surrender  his 
nomination  to  President  Routh,  in  whose  judgment  and 
impartiality  he  felt  the  largest  confidence.  The  common 
room  opened  its  mouth  wide  in  wonder  at  this  self-deny- 
ing ordinance,  but  most  assuredly  Charles  Reade  did  not 


114  Memoir  of  diaries  Reade. 

suffer  in  its  estimation;  while  the  advocates  of  University 
and  College  reform  upheld  him  as  a  model  worthy  of  imi- 
tation, and  as  the  initiator  of  a  newer  and  purer  system  of 
election.  It  is  not  necessaiy  perhaps  to  echo  this  exag- 
gerated encomium.  Had  a  relative,  or  the  son  of  a  friend, 
chanced  to  be  a  candidate,  Charles  Reade  would  have 
duly  recognized  the  claims  of  consanguinity  or  sodality. 
His  merit,  if  merit  it  was,  consisted  in  declining  to  nomi- 
nate merely  for  the  sake  of  exercising  his  power  of  pat- 
ronage, and  above  all  he  dreaded  the  responsibility  of 
introducing  an  unknown  quantity  into  the  college.  If 
Magdalen  had  been  gracious  to  him,  he  would  have  re- 
sponded to  her  benevolence  with  enthusiasm.  As  it  was, 
in  lieu  of  being  an  ahna  mater  she  tried  to  pose  as  an  in- 
justa  novercay  and  at  the  last,  after  fifty  years  of  Fellow- 
ship, his  cry  was,  "  I  will  never  enter  their  common  room 
again."  But  he  Avas  jealous  for  the  honor  of  his  college, 
far  more  so  than  the  gentry  who  were  content  to  pick  the 
college  purse  while  they  raved  about  the  Founder,  and 
romanced  concerning  statutes  whose  spirit  they  persis- 
tently disregarded. 

And  so,  thanks  to  the  fraternal  self-sacrifice  of  brother 
William,  who  magnanimously  devoted  three  weeks  at  a 
stretch  periodically  in  order  to  relieve  Charles  Reade 
from  boredom,  the  year  of  deanery  was  got  through. 
Goldwin  Smith  took  umbrage  at  the  green  coat;  but  with 
the  exception  of  this  superior  person,  no  one  quarrelled 
with  a  dean  who  could  not  sink  to  the  level  of  a  don. 
Magdalen  in  those  halcyon  days  was  an  easy-going, 
genial,  academical  club,  and  in  summer  really  a  very 
charming  place  of  residence  ;  indeed,  brother  William 
ever  after  spoke  of  the  college  as  luxurious  and  most 
agreeable.    A  domestic  man,  he   did  not  relish  a  pro- 


^'- MagdalenP  115 

longed  absence  from  his  wife  and  children;  but  the  hos- 
pitality of  Magdalen,  and  the  excellence  of  its  cuisine, 
more  than  reconciled  him  to  occasional  spells  of  solitude 
d  deux  with  his  absent  and  rather  silent  brother. 

This  was  the  last  prolonged  residence  within  the  college 
walls,  with  the  exception  of  his  year  of  Vice-Presidency, 
that  Charles  Reade  submitted  to.  The  lines  of  his  life 
were  not  cast  in  Oxford,  and  his  visits  there  were  mere 
episodes. 


CHAPTER  XL 

PABIS   AND   GENEVA. 

"We  will  now  for  the  nonce  dismiss  Oxford,  and  revert 
to  Charldfe  Reade's  happier  and  freer  existence  apart  from 
the  academical  corporation  with  which  he  possessed  so 
little  affinity. 

During  his  vacations  as  a  law  student  he  resolved  to  see 
as  much  of  the  world  as  possible.  Ipsden  was  his  head- 
quarters when  he  was  not  undergoing  the  solemn  farce  of 
eating  his  Lincoln's  Inn  dinners,  but  he  roamed  afield, 
chiefly,  however,  in  his  native  lojud  and  in  Scotland.  The 
coaching  days  were  not  those  of  luxurious  travelling,  but 
he  was  a  great  walker,  and  some  Oxford  acquaintances  af- 
forded him  alike  hospitality,  introductions,  and  splendid 
sport  in  the  Highlands.  He  was  a  gay,  light-hearted 
youngster  at  that  period,  with  a  fine  taste  for  dancing 
hornpipes  and  reels,  and  Scotland  certainly  attracted  him 
not  a  little.  He  remembered  that  his  maternal  grand- 
mother was  the  daughter  of  an  officer  in  the  young  Pre- 
tender's army,  and  could  therefore  boast  a  slight  strain  of 
Scotch  blood  in  his  otherwise  English  veins.  The  Scotch 
character,  moreover,  interested  him  profoundly.  He  ad- 
mired its  solidity  and  caution.  Haling  their  whiskey,  he 
was  charmed  by  their  high  courage  and  splendid  truthful- 
ness. What  religion  he  had  was  essentially  Calvinistic, 
and  in  his  old  age,  when  the  strong  convictions  of  youth 
returned  as  the  tide  after  the  ebb,  he  preferred  the  simple 


Paris  and  Geneva.  -117 

Presbyterian  form  of  worship  to  the  ritual  of  the  Church 
of  England.  No  marvel,  therefore,  that  Scotland  drew  him 
towards  her,  or  that  the  scene  of  one  of  his  earlier  and 
perhaps  most  natural  essays  in  the  art  of  dramatic  narra- 
tion should  have  been  laid  in  Scotland.  "  Christie  John- 
stone "  was  very  much  the  product  of  the  bright  years  of 
his  young  manhood,  though  actually  penned  nearly  two 
decades  later.  It  represented  a  revival  of  early  impres- 
sions, blended  with  a  subsequent  experience  of  the  risks 
and  perils  of  herring  fishing.  Scotland  seems  to  have  ap- 
pealed to  him  strongly,  not  merely  as  one  devoted  to  his 
gun,  and  to  a  certain  extent  an  admirer  of  the  picturesque, 
nor  solely  because  it  had  been  idealized  for  the  youth  of 
his  generation  with  such  rare  skill  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  a 
master  he  was  taught  by  his  Tory  parents,  if  indeed  he 
needed  teaching,  to  reverence  ;  but  equally  because  he 
found  the  Scotch  so  genuine,  a  people  at  once  practical 
and  ideal.  For  Charles  Reade,  himself  the  most  unprac- 
tical and  unbusiness-like  of  all  men,  a  dreamer  who  at 
times  was  actually  unconscious  of  what  was  passing  around 
him,  held  practical  talent,  as  a  quality  beyond  his  compre- 
hension, in  high  honor.  Of  course  as  a  keen  observer  he 
was  never  blind  to  the  weak  side  of  the  North  British 
character.  *'  Christie  Johnstone "  displays  a  close  an- 
alysis of  the  Scotch  habit  of  thought,  so  much  so  that  it 
might  have  been  written  by  a  Scotchman  born  and  bred. 
Its  every  line  evinces  the  friendly  and  admiring  critic  who 
had  journeyed  to  North  Britain  for  amusement,  and  re- 
mained to  become  warmly  appi'eciative.  Between  the 
years  1837  and  1847  his  visits  to  the  land  of  cakes  were 
chronic  ;  and  when,  in  1839,  his  brother  William  wedded 
as  his  second  wife  Miss  Murray  of  Ardbennie  in  Perth- 
shire, Scotland  offered  a  double  attraction. 


118  Memoir  of  Charles  Beade. 

In  1839  his  fond  mother  seems  to  have  provided  him 
with  adequate  funds  for  a  tour  on  the  Continent.  The 
route  he  travelled  has  since  then  become  so  wayworn  as 
to  savor  of  the  trite  and  commonplace.  Everybody  now 
knows  Paris,  Geneva,  and  the  Rhine  by  heart.  It  must  be 
remembered,  however,  that  in  1839  the  British  tourist  was 
not  much  abroad.  Railways  were  but  commencing  even 
in  England.  Travellers,  therefore,  had  to  submit  to  the 
weariful  pace  of  the  diligence,  and  the  imminent  risk  of 
accidents  when  that  pace  happened  to  be  accelerated. 
Hence  a  small  tour  through  Western  Europe  involved 
fatigue  and  expense  to  such  an  extent  that  most  men 
shrank  from  it,  preferring  to  live  at  home  at  ease,  and  ac- 
quire their  knowledge  of  foreign  parts  from  books  and 
newspapers.  Fortunately  we  possess  a  fragmental  record 
of  this  episode  in  Charles  Reade's  life  from  his  own  pen  in 
the  shape  of  letters  sent  home.  They  are  the  effusions  of 
youth  and  young  Oxford,  of  a  brain  that  had  been  satu- 
rated with  Aristotle,  and  trained  to  view  all  things  human 
and  divine  through  academic  spectacles.  Yet  they  con- 
tain flashes  of  original  thought,  couched  in  the  language 
of  Readiana,  and  even  at  that  early  age  indicating  the  bent 
of  his  mind  towards  character-drawing.  He  went  abroad 
not  so  much  to  study  architecture  or  stare  at  pictures  as 
to  obtain  a  new  view  of  men  and  manners.  Those  famil- 
iar with  his  works  will  recognize  in  them  his  passion  for 
individuality  and  detestation  of  average.  He  may  not 
have  been  gifted  with  the  keen  eye  of  Dickens  for  oddity 
and  eccentricity,  but  a  character  devoid  of  distinctive  col- 
oring failed  to  interest  him  ;  and  we  may  perceive  in  the 
following  correspondence  how  eagerly  he  was  groping 
amid  strange  scenes  after  fresh  types.  There  is  but  little 
to  show  that  at  this  period  of  his  life  he  did  more  than 


Paris  mid  Geneva.  119 

dream  of  authorship  ;  he  may  or  may  not  have  forecast 
his  future,  but  anyhow  he  set  to  work  in  workmanlike  fash- 
ion, probing  humanity  below  the  surface,  and  acquiring  a 
knowledge  of  character  while  yet  ignorant  of  the  very 
rudiments  of  dramatic  construction.  He  shall,  however, 
tell  his  own  tale  in  his  own  words. 

The  envelope  wherein  the  following  five  letters  were 
sealed  bears  on  the  reverse  this  memorandum  : 

Four  (the  number  actually  was  five) 
letters  from 
Charles  Reade 
to 
Papa 
and 
Mamma 
A.D.  1839  Aetatis  suae  25. 

What  brutal  ink  they  are  Avritten  on  ! 
Sealed  up  Oct.  18  XCO 
Whilst  writing  2nd  Vol. 

Cloister  and  the  Hearth. 

Scene. 
Gerard  and  the 
Dusseldorf  Doctor. 
D.D. 

The  first  is  addressed  to  his  mother  at  Ipsden  House, 
Wallingford,  Berks,  England  ;  and  apparently,  owing  to 
its  being  insufficiently  stamped,  the  maternal  purse  was 
mulcted  to  the  extent  of  two  shillings  and  tenpence,  a 
heavy  penalty  even  for  the  days  of  the  shilling  postage. 
It  runs  thus: 


120  Memoir  of  Charles  Rcade. 

Bedford  Hotel,  Rde  St.  IIonori^,  Paris. 
\yednesday^  July  3,  1839. 

"Mtdkau  Mother, — I  write  a  few  lines  to  notify  my  safe  arrival  at  the 
French  capital.  I  fell  in  with  an  acquaintance  in  London  going  as  far  aa 
Paris,  and,  as  he  speaks  French,  I  was  glad  to  close  with  the  oiTcr  of  his 
company.  This,  however,  delayed  mc  longer  in  town  than  I  liked,  and 
longer  than  I  would  have  waited  had  the  delay  been  first  announced  as  a 
condition  of  our  travelling  together.  We  went  down  to  Southampton  by 
railway  and  coach,  Francis  Faber,  whom  I  met  in  London,  having  di.s- 
Buaded  me  from  the  long  sea  trip  from  London.  Railway,  forty-six  miles ; 
coach  road,  eighteen. 

"  On  getting  into  the  railway  at  Vauxhall  I  found  a  face  opposite  to  me 
that  made  me  laugh.  Thinks  I,  I  am  sure  I  have  laughed  at  you  before. 
On  taxing  my  memory,  I  became  conscious  that  it  was  the  ludicrous  phiz 
of  a  comedian,  whom  I  had  seen  represent  a  miserly  servant,  whom  his 
miserly  master  had,  in  a  paroxysm  of  generosity,  promised  a  guinea,  which 
in  a  cooler  moment  he  repented  of,  but  which  the  other  did  not  fail  to  ex- 
tort. Learning  from  our  remarks  that  we  were  going  abroad,  this  gentle- 
man set  his  eyes  and  tongue  agoing,  one  as  fast  as  the  other,  and  drew  a 
rapid  sketch  of  the  tour  we  ought  to  make,  and  the  route  we  ought  to  pur- 
sue. This  finished,  our  rapid  vehicle  set  him  down  some  miles  from  Lon- 
don, on  which  he  said,  "  God  bless  you !"  and  made  a  theatrical  covgi. 

"  This  youth's  remarks  did  not  stick  as  some  people's  do ;  however,  I  re- 
member, he  said  there  were  no  cathedrals  abroad  so  fine  as  the  British, 
whereupon  I  pushed  him  with  Milan,  Cologne,  and  Antwerp. 

"The  sea  trip  from  Southampton  to  Havre  was  wearisome.  I  was 
squeamish,  though  not  vanquished.  We  started  from  Portsmouth  at 
twelve,  and  reached  Havre  at  half-past  ten.  The  harbor  of  this  place, 
where  we  landed,  is  like  the  locks  in  a  river,  so  narrow.  As  soon  as  ever 
we  ran  it,  '  Whoop,'  says  a  chap  on  one  bank,  '  'Oop,'  says  another  on  the 
other,  whereby  we  were  given  to  understand  that  the  Ifonarch,  Captain 
Forder,  passenger,  C.  R.  L.  F.  of  M.  C.  (Charles  Readc,  Lay  Fellow  of  Mag- 
dalen College),  was  not  undiscovered  by  the  gens-d'armes,  douaniers,  and 
other  harpies.  One  of  the  former  was  on  board  of  us  the  moment  the  ves- 
sel touched  the  pier,  occupied  the  passage-plank  with  his  body,  and  took 
all  our  passports.  Our  portmanteaus  were  in  the  hold  of  the  vessel  by  law, 
our  bags  we  were  allowed  at  once  to  take  to  the  Custom  -  House,  where 
they  were  cursorily  examined  by  the  C.  H.  oflSccrs,  as  the  portmanteaus 


Paris  and  Geneva.  121 

were  diligently  searched  the  next  morning  at  8  o'clock.  Every  hotel  keeps 
a  chap  called  a  commissionaire,  Anglice  a  decoy  duck,  whose  business  it  is 
to  stand  on  the  quay,  pounce  upon  the  arrivals  before  they  can  recover 
their  scattered  senses,  announce  the  immeasurable  superiority  of  his  inn, 
and  by  way  of  commentary  bustle  thither  with  his  victim's  luggage.  Being 
prepared  for  this,  we  sang  out,  'London  Hotel,'  whereupon  all  the  other 
ducks  fled  before  a  stout,  noisy  Frenchman,  who  poured  a  tide  of  very 
tolerable  English  upon  us,  and  carried  us  off  to  the  London  Hotel.  We 
slept  in  the  middle  of  the  house,  yet  up  three  pairs  of  stairs— bricked  floor 
of  course.  Monsieur  le  Commissionaire  rose  with  the  sun,  and  secured  us 
places  in  the  diligence.  The  coupe  being  engaged,  we  took  the  banquette, 
an  open  place  like  a  cab  at  the  top  of  all,  where  the  conductor  or  guard 
sits  with  three  passengers,  the  coachman  sitting  in  a  great  seat  bang  over- 
right  the  wheel  horse's  shoulders. 

"  Havre  is  a  very  fine  town.  There  is  a  lofty  hill  a  little  way  out  fairly 
studded  with  houses.  On  that  hill  live  one  hundred  and  fifty  English 
families.  Our  commissionaire  bustled  about,  got  our  passports,  showed 
us  the  town,  bolted  into  the  great  Church,  jabbered  so  loud  as  quite  to 
drown  the  priests'  gabbling,  and  exit  sprinkling  himself  with  some  of  the 
Holy  Water.  Paris,  and  our  route  thither,  which  was  magnificent  in  point 
of  scenery,  is  for  another  letter,  better  ink,  paper,  pens,  etc.  I  beg  to 
assure  you  of  my  safety,  and  the  pleasure  I  have  already  derived  from  my 
trip.  Your  affectionate  Son,  Charles." 

One  would  like  to  frame  a  guess  as  to  who  the  compan- 
ion of  his  travel  was,  and,  further,  as  to  the  identity  of  the 
comedian  with  the  mirth-provoking  visage.  He  has  left 
no  clue  to  either.  Had  the  former  been  an  Oxonian  his 
name  would  doubtless  have  appeared,  while  as  regards  the 
latter,  the  theatre  being  anathema  at  Ipsden,  one  feels 
rather  surprised  that  a  comedian  was  alluded  to  even  inci- 
dentally, and  still  more  that  this  was  followed  up  by  an 
avowal  of  having  seen  him  play.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Reade 
may  have  frowned  and  ejaculated  impatiently  when  she 
read  that  portion  aloud  to  the  family  circle.  But  we  may 
rest  assured  this  little  lapsus  calami  about  the  theatre  was 
more  than  amply  atoned  for  by  the  sly  bit  at  the  priest 
6 


122  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

in  the  great  church  of  Havre.  Uncle  Faber,  from  his 
splendid  solitude  at  Sherburn  Hospital,  had  predicted  the 
downfall  of  the  Papacy,  the  wish  in  his  case  being  father 
to  the  thought,  and  his  sister-in-law  of  Ipsden  firmly  be- 
lieved the  good  man  to  be  one  of  the  major  prophets. 
Son  Charles  knew  that  nothing  was  so  likely  to  charm 
his  mother  as  a  hard  hit  at  anybody,  or  anything,  papisti- 
cal. Hence  the  allusion  to  priestly  jabber  may  be  taken 
cum  grano  as  a  bit  of  diplomacy. 

It  seems  strange  that  Paris,  for  which  city  he  subse- 
quently conceived  such  a  strong  affection,  should  not  by 
any  means  have  taken  him  captive  at  first  sight.  Eight 
years  later,  indeed  up  to  the  date  of  the  Revolution  of 
1848,  which  fairly  nauseated  him,  he  idolized  Paris,  and 
seemed  when  absent  beset  with  a  restless  desire  to  revisit 
it.  Paris  appears  to  have  grown  upon  him,  but  not  until 
he  had  perfected  himself  in  colloquial  French,  and  was 
able  to  sit  out  a  French  play  without  the  aid  of  a  dic- 
tionary. 

His  first  impressions  of  the  gayest  of  gay  cities  may  be 
gathered  from  the  following  letter,  evidently  penned  with 
great  care.  Mrs.  Reade  was  one  of  those  domestic  deities 
that  require  much  propitiation,  and  her  favorite  son  had 
the  best  reasons  for  desiring  to  keep  in  her  good  graces. 
Vide  the  postscript. 

"  Hotel  Bedford,  Ticesday,  July  9. 

"  My  dear  Mother, — I  have  received  through  Lady  Steele  one  letter 
from  you.  By  the  time  this  reaches  you  I  shall  be,  D.  V.,  in  Geneva,  and 
in  possession  of  any  other  you  may  have  sent  there.  My  last  letter  left 
me  at  Ilavre,  where  we  slept,  and  were  flea-bitten.  On  perambulating  the 
town  in  the  morning  (this  being,  you  arc  to  know,  the  first  foreign  town 
I  had  ever  seen)  I  began  to  look  out  for  the  points  of  difference.  The 
houses  have  an  entirely  different  appearance,  but  in  what  the  difference 
lies  it  would  not  be  easy  to  define ;  however,  they  are  higher,  the  windows 


Paris  and  Geneva.  123 

open  like  folding  doors,  and  liave  generally  green  blinds.  They  arc  also 
all  old,  and  this  is  the  case  in  every  part  of  France  I  have  seen.  Nothing 
appears  to  liave  been  built  within  the  last  two  centuries.  The  streets 
crowded  with  people,  who  wear  blue  blouses  pretty  generally. 

"  We  left  Havre  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  as  we  were  occu- 
pied some  time  at  the  Custom-IIouse,  had  not  much  time  to  make  observa- 
tions. The  coupe  being  taken,  we  had  the  banquette.  The  first  thing  I 
discovered  was,  that  in  France  carriages  take  the  right  hand  in  passing. 
We  had  a  fresh  coachman  every  stage,  who  drove  horses  just  as  English- 
men drive  pigs,  let  the  reins  fall  upon  their  backs,  and  laid  the  whip  into 
them  in  forty  different  ways.  The  whip  is  everything  with  these  fellows. 
It  is  never  idle,  always  either  cracking  in  the  air  or  stinging  the  cattle. 
We  drove  out  of  Havre  with  five  horses,  two  behind,  three  in  front — ^a 
very  common  number.  The  wheels  of  the  diligence  were  two  thirds  as 
broad  as  those  of  an  English  broad-wheeled  wagon,  but  we  rolled  along 
at  a  good  pace  over  a  finer  road  than  any  in  Oxfordshire,  or,  in  fact,  any 
tliat  ever  I  saw  except  the  Great  North  Road.  We  had  no  reason  to 
regret  not  having  taken  the  boat  to  Rouen,  since  the  turnpike  presents  t'.ie 
finer  view  of  the  two.  The  Seine  is  a  magnificent  river,  and  its  beauties 
are  seen  from  the  road,  which  never  separates  long  from  it,  infinitely 
better  than  they  can  be  from  the  river.  The  way  in  which  the  river 
first  bursts  upon  your  sight,  as  you  wheel  round  a  corner  to  descend  a  hill 
that  has  taken  you  an  hour  to  mount,  is  prodigiously  fine.  Another  view 
I  particularly  remarked.  We  had  lost  sight  of  the  river  some  time,  and 
entered  a  very  woody  country.  We  were  ascending  a  mountain  in  a  very 
serpentine  manner,  when,  at  a  turn  of  the  road,  we  saw  at  one  moment  a 
huge  basin  of  wooded  hills,  before,  behind,  and  on  the  left ;  on  the  right, 
far  below,  two  gigantic  branches  ,of  the  Seine  rolling  through  such  a 
plain ! — grass,  com,  groves  of  apple-trees,  towns,  villages,  chateaux,  steam- 
boat?, and  large  merchant  vessels  on  the  river,  the  air  perfumed  with  the 
apple-trees  on  the  side  of  the  roads.  Rouen  is  first  seen  from  a  high  hill. 
Edinburgh  is  not  to  be  compared  to  it!  The  audacious  sweep  of  the  river, 
the  mountains  behind  the  town,  the  town  itself,  as  picturesque  an  object  as 
either  the  mountain  or  the  river,  as  if  nature  had  planted  it  to  give  the  scene 
the  magnificent  cathedral,  worth  a  thousand  Notre  Dames !     Oh,  my  eye ! 

"  We  were  annoyed  with  r\o  pave  between  Havre  and  Paris  except  before 
entering  a  town,  when  you  have  generally  half  a  mile  of  it;  but  I  hear  we 
shall  travel  a  great  deal  on  pave  between  Paris  and  Switzerland.  The 
towns  are  far  more  frequent  than  in  England.     Chateaux,  I  did  not  see 


124  Memoir  of  Charles  Iteade. 

many;  the  finest  belonged  to  a  ribbon -merchant,  so  trade  flourishes  over 
here,  I  suppose.  At  Ilouen  they  put  us  into  the  covpe  without  extra 
charge,  and  mounted  some  snobs  in  the  bamjuette.  The  diligence  drivers 
flanked  all  their  acquaintances  they  met  on  the  road,  making  the  leather 
thong  crack  about  six  inches  from  their  skulls.  However,  it  sometimes 
happened  that  these  foot-passengers  touched  their  hats  to  the  driver 
(touching  the  hat  in  France  is  no  more  than  nodding  or  winking  in  Eng- 
land), in  which  ease  he  always  shifted  his  other  instrument  of  recognition 
to  his  left  hand,  and,  drawing  off  his  cap,  bowed  with  graceful,  respectful 
enipresfsement. 

"  We  had  one  nice  scene  after  Rouen.  The  sun  had  just  set,  when,  in 
the  middle  of  a  tremendous  hill,  from  which  Rouen  (at  a  great  distance) 
was  visible,  we,  having  eight  horses,  caught  the  Dieppe  diligence  with  but 
five.  The  Dieppe  people  got  out ;  incited  by  their  example  we  did  the 
same.  The  road  lay  through  a  wood.  Thirty  or  forty  people  walking  by 
t'.ie  side  of  the  two  enormous  machines,  some  smoking,  others  ligliting 
their  pipes,  all  chatting,  polite,  and  agreeable,  produced  a  pleasant  effect 
At  the  top  of  the  hill  our  humanity  was  rewarded  by  a  fine  retrospect 
We  raced  the  Dieppe  all  the  way  to  Paris,  beat  them  when  about  three 
miles  from  P. ;  but  as  we  clapped  on  a  handsome  set  of  horses  two  miles 
from  the  city,  just  to  make  a  show,  our  old  friend  rolled  by,  the  driver 
indulging  in  pantomimic  gestures  that  ended  in  a  flank  all  round  for  his 
beasts.  On  reaching  Paris  I  went  into  a  warm  bath,  for  which  I  paid 
four  francs  and  a  half.  A  knowing  man  in  the  inn  told  me  he  gets  his  at 
the  same  place  for  one  franc  six  sous ;  the  fact  U,  you  must  ask  for  a 
simple  bath,  value  one  franc.  I  had  a  complete  one,  viz.,  one  covered 
with  a  piece  of  linen,  price  one  franc  and  a  half,  which  adds  nothing  to 
your  comfort.  Take  your  own  soap.  I  took  what  the  man  offered  me, 
for  which  I  was  charged  tliirty  sous,  at  which  preposterous  price  it  is 
actually  sold  in  the  shops.  To  be  sure  such  delicious  soap  never  found 
its  way  to  England ;  it  melts  like  a  peach,  and  smells  like  nectar.  I  mean 
te  bring  you  a  cake. 

"  Mr.  Lane,  the  clerk  of  the  hotel,  speaks  French  and  English  with 
equal  fluency.  I  begged  him  to  learn  at  the  posfe  restante  where  Miss 
Reade  was.  They  refused  to  give  him  any  information,. and  I  hear  this 
is  their  common  practice.  Mr.  Lane  got  me  my  Swiss  passport,  and  has 
been  negotiating  for  a  place  in  the  diligence ;  but,  to  my  horror,  just  as  I 
had  packed  up  everything,  word  came  that  the  diligence  was  full  till 
Friday,  when  a  place  in  the  banquette,  or  inlerieure,  was  left !     The  coupe 


Paris  and  Geneva.  125 

taken  for  nineteen  dajs  except  one  place  on  Saturday!  So  here  I  am 
booked  for  three  daj'S  more  in  Paris,  of  which  I  am  heartily  tired.  I 
have  dined  twice  with  Lady  Steele,  and  since  this  contretemps  have  ac- 
cepted another  invitation.  I  have  been  once  at  the  theatre  to  see  the 
famous  Mdlle.  Mars,  who,  at  the  age  of  seventy  years,  enacts  pretty  girls 
of  seventeen.  Such,  however,  was  not  the  case  this  time.  She  repre- 
sented Mdlle.  de  Belle  Isle,  a  lady  of  rank  and  misfortune,  who  conies  to 
Paris  to  throw  herself  at  the  king's  feet  on  behalf  of  her  father  and 
brother  in  the  Bastile.  Ilere,  as  her  suit  has  just  begun  to  prosper,  a 
singular  concatenation  of  circumstances  brings  her  virtue  under  suspicion, 
and  every  attempt  she  makes  to  clear  up  the  mystery  serves  by  a  fatality 
to  make  matters  worse.  The  scenes  between  her  and  her  chivalrous  lover, 
the  Chevalier  Detubigny,  were  very  striking.  At  length,  in  defiance  of 
what  appears  to  him  the  evidence  of  his  senses,  he  undertakes  the  defence 
of  her  honor.  Then  follows  a  scene  in  which  he  bids  her  farewell  on  the 
eve  of  a  desperate  duel  he  has  undertaken,  unknown,  of  course,  to  her. 
This  was  so  well  written  and  finely  acted  that,  although  I  followed  the 
players  with  a  book,  the  sentences  of  which  I  had  partly  learned  by  help  of 
a  dictionary,  I  sniffed  a  little,  and  was  very  near  yelping  right  out.  I  shall 
never  forget  how  the  dog  said  those  three  words,  '■Je  pars,  Gabrielle  P 

" '  Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead !'  I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
return  home,  as  soon  as  ever  I  have  seen  the  principal  beauties  of  Switz- 
erland. I  have  picked  up  one  or  more  little  traits  of  character,  national 
and  industrial,  but  not  so  many  as  I  could  have  wished.  Of  the  public 
buildings  in  '  avis '  I  will  only  say  at  present  they  are  so  magnificent  and 
numerous  that  after  the  first  two  days  the  mind  is  no  longer  capable  of 
surprise  or  much  gratified  by  anything  in  that  way  I  could  gaze  at.  The 
picture-gallery  of  the  Louvre  is  an  avenue,  a  long  walk  for  robust  persons. 
Kotre  Dame  is  a  humbug,  unworthy  to  be  the  cathedral  of  Paris.  Ver- 
sailles I  have  seen,  but  could  not  gain  admission.  Before  I  leave  Paris, 
since  I  am  to  be  detained  here,  I  think  I  might  as  well  write  the  letter  I 
promised  my  father,  in  which  I  will  mention  one  or  two  of  the  things  I 
have  seen  and  observed  in  Paris.     In  the  meantime,  love  to  all. 

"  Your  affectionate  Son,  Charlks  Reade. 

"  P.  S. — In  answer  to  something  in  your  letter,  I  have  not  spent  one 
farthing  of  your  money  in  knick-knackeries,  and  I  will  not  spend  above 
one  napoleon  so  during  all  my  tour. 

"  Foi  de  Chevalier-  /" 


126  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

The  postscript  is  very  telltale.  Mrs.  Reade,  who  styled 
her  husband  "Mr.  Reade"  when  the  clouds  chanced  to 
Lave  collected  on  her  brow,  and  "  ray  dearest  John  "  when 
the  sun  shone,  was,  in  her  way,  a  domestic  tyrant.  In 
the  twenties  of  his  life  son  Charles  was  no  match  for  her, 
and  we  may  read  their  mutual  relations  in  the  deferential 
tone  adopted  by  him  when  referring  to  the  delicate  sub- 
ject of  money. 

The  letter  to  his  father,  if  ever  written,  is  not  extant. 
Of  the  series,  preserved  apparently  by  his  fond  mother, 
the  next  in  chronological  order  is  addressed  to  his  brother 
William  from  Geneva.  What  is  now  styled  the  Grand  Ho- 
tel des  Bergues,  in  1839  had  not  plastered  itself  with  a  gran- 
diloquent epithet;  grandeur  being,  apparently,  the  prod- 
uct of  railways.  It  was  tenanted  at  the  time  by  one  Ilerr 
A.  E.  Rufenacht,  and  the  note-paper  placed  at  the  disposal 
of  its  guests  w^as  headed  with  a  vignette  representing  with 
average  accuracy  the  section  of  the  northern  side  of  Geneva 
towards  the  lake,  including,  of  course,  the  "Bergues"  itself. 

"  My  dear  William,"  he  writes,  "  the  above  is  A.  E.  Rufenacht's  notion 
of  Geneva,  viz.,  the  place  upon  the  borders  of  whose  lake  stands  the  inn  that 
calls  him  its  master.  All  the  beauties  of  this  noble  place  lie  on  that  side  of 
the  lake  which,  for  certain  reasons,  escaped  our  maitre-dMlers  picturesque 
investigation.  In  point  of  fact,  Geneva  is  not  the  dirty  hole  he  has  repre- 
sented it.  On  his  side  of  the-  lake  are  some  very  high  hills,  to  which  his 
vignette  does  no  justice;  on  the  other  side,  at  different  distances  from  the 
water-side,  are  the  famous  mountains  of  Switzerland.  A.  the  town,  most- 
ly situate  on  steep,  rising  ground.  B.  C.  mountains  rising  direct  from  a 
thick  fringe  of  trees,  spotted  with  a  few  Swiss  houses  ornecs,  on  the  very 
brink  of  the  water.  E.  a  mountain  lying  a  little  back.  F.  G.  others  a  long 
distance  down  the  lake.  J.  long,  straggling,  hundred -peak  Mont  Blanc. 
X.  a  mountain  overlooking  the  highest  part  of  the  town.  0.  the  two  deep, 
narrow  streams  in  which  the  lake  is  made  to  rush  through  the  town. 
Mont  Blanc  is  so  distant  that  (other  mountains  being  close)  its  vast  height 
reaches  the  mind  only  in  the  form  of  an  obvious  inference,  i.  e.,  you  can  see 


Paris  and  Geneva.  127 

no  part  of  Mont  Blanc  that  is  not  either  covered  or  sprinkled  with  snow, 
but  the  fine  eminences  (not  less,  I  imagine,  than  five  thousand  feet)  near 
at  hand  are  clothed  with  vines  to  their  very  summits.  I  loitered  about  by 
the  side  of  the  blue  waters  last  night,  and  asked  myself  whether  it  was 
possible  I  could  be  personally  present  at  this  famous  city ;  yet  I  am  sure 
my  arrival  hither  was  not  contrived  with  that  magical  celerity  which  nat- 
urally dazzles  the  senses,  and  might  excuse  a  person  for  fancying  that 
nothing  is  but  what  is  not.  Sir,  I  left  Paris  at  5  p.m.  Saturday,  and  ar- 
rived here  Tuesday  6  p.m.,  seventy-seven  hours,  during  which  time  I  never 
left  the  diligence,  except  at  the  ordinary  stoppages,  and  twice  every  twenty- 
four  hours  for  breakfast  and  dinner,  the  only  meals  allowed  to  travellers 
in  French  coaches.  After  being  out  of  bed  three  nights,  and  encountering 
dust  and  heat  unknown  in  Britain,  I  went  to  rest  at  my  usual  hour,  and 
got  up  to  breakfast  at  nine  without  the  slightest  feeling  of  fatigue.  With 
regard  to  the  heat  in  the  South  of  France  and  here,  I  need  only  say  that  I 
rode  in  the  diligence  without  my  coat  and  neckcloth,  and  sleep  without  one 
blanket,  and  the  windows,  as  wide  as  folding-doors,  wide  open. 

"  Paris.  I  arrived  there  at  seven  in  the  morning,  after  twenty-one  hours 
of  the  best  diligence  in  France,  went  to  Lawson's  English  hotel,  323  Rue 
St.  Honord.  Bath,  breakfast,  etc.  It  is  so  impossible  to  convey  in  a  letter 
any  idea  of  grand  public  buildings  that  I  shall  reserve  them  for  colloquy, 
and  confine  myself  to  other  matters  of  observation.  I  soon  discovered  that 
the  French  understand  pleasure  better  than  we,  and  they  pursue  it  steadily, 
not  boisterously  nor  laboriously,  into  which  contrary  extreme  the  English 
are  apt  to  fall,  but  with  a  graceful  yet  matter-of-course  air.  The  most 
dissipated  keep  what  in  London  would  be  thought  very  early  hours ;  but 
their  evening  pleasures  commence  early,  and  they  are  free  from  that  stark, 
staring,  national  madness  which  induces  us  to  sit  sipping  wine  three  con- 
secutive hours.  Talk  of  the  population  of  London,  it  appears  nothing  com- 
pared with  that  of  Paris  to  the  eye  of  a  walker ;  at  the  same  moment  the 
Boulevards  at  every  part,  the  Tuileries  gardens,  all  the  places  of  public 
amusement,  and  all  the  streets  are  so  crowded  you  can  hardly  see  the 
ground :  this  is  in  the  evening.  The  cafes,  which  are  extremely  numerous, 
have  often  large  awnings  erected  outside  them,  under  which  some  fifty 
chairs  are  set.  The  visitants  in  fine  weather  sit  here  and  sip  their  coffee, 
or  cat  their  ices  in  a  delightful  shade.  One  very  cheap  amusement  is 
Musard's  concert — one  franc.  The  music,  which  is  all  instrumental,  is  ex- 
ecuted in  magnificent  style ;  the  musicians  play  in  a  large  building,  roofed, 
but  opened  on  the  side  facing  the  gardens,  between  wliich  and  the  said 


128  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

building  nothing  intervenes  but  a  few  pillars.  In  the  building  and  out- 
side hundreds  of  scats  are  placed,  hundreds  of  persons  walk  during  the 
performance  in  the  gardens  and  orange  grove,  from  which  the  music  is 
heard  to  advantage,  a  noble  cafe  adjoining.  The  building  and  gardens 
blaze  with  lamps,  and  the  former  with  gold  and  silver  columns.  Calino's 
concert  is  conducted  on  a  similar  plan,  but  here  in  the  garden  is  an  am- 
phitheatre, where  chaps  ride  with  a  spear  at  the  ring,  so  much  a  turn. 
Of  course  I  have  been  all  along  on  the  lookout  for  little  traits  of  charac- 
ter, national  and  individual,  but  with  no  very  brilliant  success.  However,  at 
Notre  Dame  I  saw  two  French  ladies  encounter  each  other  at  the  door  of  the 
confessional.  Instantly  they  both  recoiled,  courtesied  a  la  mode,  and  insist- 
ed A  that  B,  B  that  A,  should  have  the  precedence.  One  would  have  thought 
they  were  stepping  into  the  sallea-manger.  At  length  one,  with  a  deep  ex- 
pression of  gratitude  and  affability,  consented  to  go  and  confess  her  sins  first. 

"  Government,  which  interferes  with  everything  in  France,  kills  all  the 
meat  for  the  Parisian  tables.  There  are  in  Paris  four  thundering  slaugh- 
ter-houses, something  in  the  style  of  an  English  Royal  Palace.  One  of  these 
I  visited,  and  having  to  cross  a  moderate  -  sized  river  of  blood  and  filth,  I 
showed  signs  of  aversion,  whereon  my  French  conductor  grinned  from  ear 
to  ear  and  said  :  ^Monsieur,  ce  rCest pas propre P 

"  Again  in  the  Royal  forest  of  Versailles  I  found  a  haycock,  a  solitary 
haycock.  This  is  for  the  Frenchmen  to  jump  over  and  upon,;t)owr  s'amtiser. 
The  forest  Is  full  of  people  every  evening,  amusing  themselves  with  con- 
versation, soft  balls,  and  dancing.  I  went  one  evening  to  see  the  lower 
classes  dance,  having  heard  so  much  of  their  grace,  etc. ;  but  was  rather 
disappointed.  One  or  two  of  the  men  danced  nicely,  but  they  were  some 
of  the  jeune  gens  from  Paris.  There  Tvere  only  two  aristocratic  house- 
maids, whereof  one  lolloped,  the  other  spat.  The  ladies  are  so  very  ill-made 
in  France,  that,  of  course,  they  cannot  dance  so  well  as  English  women 
with  one  half  of  their  immense  practice  could  do. 

"My  attempts  at  speaking  French  are  said  by  those  who  delight  in  re- 
mote analogies  to  resemble  the  convulsive  efforts  of  a  chimney-sweeper  to 
swarm  up  a  fresh -soaped  pole  to  that  joint  of  mutton  which  he  shall 
never  attain.  At  the  bath  last  night  I  asked  for  a  comb ;  they  nodded  as- 
sent, and  brought  an  egg !  I  once  soared  in  conversation  as  high  as  what 
Aristotle  calls  a  gnome,  i.e.,  a  sort  of  moral  maxim  sententiously  expressed :  * 

*  He  highly  recommends  the  dramatic  poet  to  season  his  verse  with  a 
judicious  interspcrsion  of  these 


Paris  and  Geneva.  129 

e.  g.,  a  cab-drirer  was  working  his  machine  over  the  stones  to  take  me  to  a 
neighboring  village,  and  kept  whipping  his  beast.  Says  I, '  Ne  fatiguez  pas 
votre  cheval.  Les  chevanx  sont  les  boiis  servileurs  de  r/iomme.^  '  Bon,''  says 
the  Frenchman  with  a  look  of  intense  admiration,  his  eyes  glistening,  and 
(as  they  invariably  do  when  anything  bright  strikes  their  minds  from  with- 
in or  without)  took  his  horse  a  flank  that  sounded  like  the  crack  of  a  pistol. 
A  delicious  effect  was  produced  in  the  coffee-room  at  Lawson's  hotel  by  the 
unexpected  intersertion  of  one  word  into  what  promised  to  be  a  romantic 
observation.  An  Englishman  said, '  The  tomb  of  Eloise  and  Abelard  in 
the  cemetery  of  P6re  la  Chaise  is  choked  up  with  weeds  and  dirt.  It's  a 
sad  pity  their  tomb  should  go  to  decay  in  this  manner,  the  parties  {quelle 
horreur  !)  having  made  such  a  noise  in  the  world.' 

"  I  went  to  the  Morgue  twice.  There  was  a  corpse  there  each  time. 
The  first  had  no  marks,  the  second  a  number  of  little  cuts  round  the  left 
breast.  If  you  walk  over  the  Parisian  bridges  at  night,  they  pitch  you 
over  into  the  Seine,  fish  you  up,  and,  bringing  you  to  the  Morgue,  ob- 
tain from  Government  5  francs  for  finding  what  was,  properly  speaking, 
never  lost.  There  ai"e  fifty  thousand  soldiers  in  Paris.  All  the  streets  are 
guarded  with  military,  besides  the  gens  -  d'armes,  but  the  bridges  are  not. 
If  you  must  cross  a  bridge  at  night,  you  ask  for  a  couple  of  soldiers — one 
won't  come,  because  he  must  return  alone.  They  escort  you  over,  and  re- 
ceive from  you  four  or  five  francs.  There  was  a  small  row  in  Paris  just 
before  I  came  away,  which  detained  my  washerwoman  from  me  an  hour  or 
two.  I  can't  say  what  was  done.  If  fifty  or  a  hundred  citizens  were 
killed,  a  Parisian,  male  or  female,  would  call  it  a  trifling  affair. 

"Ashamed  am  1,0  Bill,  to  send  such  a  poor  letter  as  this  to  England; 
but  I  must  this  day  ascend  the  hill  that  overlooks  Geneva,  and  am  anxious 
to  let  j'ou  all  know  where  I  am,  and  what  are  my  plans,  without  delay.  To- 
morrow I  steam  down  the  lake,  visit  Lausanne,  with  other  places,  and  get 
across  to  Chamounix.  I  have  Nellie's  map  and  a  guide-book,  and  money 
enough  to  buy  the  costume  necessary  for  the  hills  and  tour  for  a  week  be- 
fore I  return  to  Geneva,  in  doing  which  I  shall  touch  at  places  on  the  lake 
omitted  purposely  in  going.  By  that  time  I  expect  to  find  a  remittance, 
which  will  enable  me  to  go  by  diligence  to  Lucerne.  Then  I  shall  ascend 
the  Righi,  descend  it  on  the  other  side,  get  to  Basle,  and  sail  to  Rotterdam, 
stopping  at  places  on  the  Rhine,  or  not,  as  may  happen.  I  wish  I  had  you 
with  me.  One  requires  sympathy  to  season  the  very  finest  dish  Nature  can 
dress  for  us.     Best  love  to  all  at  home. 

"  Your  affectionate  Brother,  Charles  Reade. 

6* 


130  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

"  p.  S. — I  wrote  from  Dijon  to  my  mother  to  ask  for  some  money.  If 
she  will  send  me  a  Bank  of  England  note,  just  taking  the  number,  and  ad- 
dress Poste  Restante,  or  Hotel  des  Bergues,  there  is  no  chance  of  its  mis- 
carrying. I  shall  obtain  in  Geneva  its  full  value  in  French  money,  which 
is  current  everywhere,  whereas  the  Genevese  coin  is  rejected  in  parts  of 
Switzerland." 

The  above  affords  a  fair  idea  of  the  writer's  mental  at- 
titude at  that  period  of  his  life.  Addressed  to  a  brother 
who  had  been  first  the  naughty  boy  of  the  family,  then 
sailor,  next  soldier,  and  subsequently  a  man  of  leisure  en- 
joying the  income  of  an  eldest  son,  it  was  penned  with  a 
trifle  less  constraint  than  those  to  his  father  and  mother, 
yet  in  the  full  consciousness  of  its  affording  pabulum  for 
the  Ipsden  breakfast-table.  Of  all  men  Charles  Reade 
throughout  his  life  was  most  unwilling  to  report  himself, 
or  detail  his  every  word  and  action.  It  is  not  too  mucli 
to  affirm  that  he  preferred  to  shroud  himself  in  a  thin  veil 
of  mystery.  This  tour,  however,  was  evidently  undertak- 
en on  the  pre-existent  arrangement,  that  he  was  to  narrate 
at  all  events  the  outline  of  his  journey.  Doubtless  the 
route  had  been  chalked  out  with  his  sister  Nellie  (EUinor), 
who  was  much  attracted  by  the  Continent.  Hence  the 
passing  allusion  to  her  map  as  to  a  pole  star. 

This  and  the  other  letters  of  the  series  would  be  com- 
monplace but  for  the  indications  they  afford  of  the  gradual 
evolution  of  literary  capacity.  He  wrote  as  he  conversed, 
sententiously,  and  with  due  regard  to  Aristotle's  canon. 
It  must  be  remembered,  however,  that  malgre  his  mild 
philosophizing,  he  was  then  a  bright  and  sprightly  young 
man,  brimful  of  vigor,  a  pedestrian,  and  an  athlete.  It 
was  on  his  return  from  this  very  self-same  tour  that  the 
writer  of  these  lines  saw  him  jump  on  the  Ipsden  dining- 
room  table,  an  oval  board  with  many  legs,  and,  fiddle  in 


Paris  and  Geneva.  131 

hand,  strike  up  a  merry  tune  and  dance  the  double  shuffle. 
Although  a  Fellow  of  Magdalen,  he  was  almost  a  boy;  in- 
deed, it  took  him  many  years  to  don  the  gravity  of  man- 
hood. He  thought  epigrammatically,  and  though  he  had 
not  yet  begun  to  write  his  thoughts  as  he  thought  them, 
his  speech  was  invariably  not  merely  pointed,  but  barbed. 
His  letters  are  of  value  to  his  friends  as  giving  a  clew  to 
the  steady  progress  of  his  mind  towards  literature,  and 
especially  towards  the  drama,  the  pole  to  which  his  whole 
being  seemed  at  all  times  and  in  all  places  to  turn. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    HOSPICE    OF  ST.  BEENARD. 

The  next  epistle  of  the  series  is  addressed  to  his  father, 
and  contains  more  of  the  Charles  Reade  of  later  days.  It 
is  penned  in  a  freer  vein  than  the  solemn  essay  he  indited 
on  entering  as  a  law  student,  but  there  are  still  ample  evi- 
dences of  a  desire  to  gain  his  father's  appreciation.  lie 
was  writing  to  a  man  who  enjoyed  the  reputation  in  his 
own  county  of  being  an  admirable  raconteur,  a  ready  wit, 
and  as  quick  at  repartee  as  he  was  gentle  in  his  sarcasm. 
He  knew  the  old  Squire  as  a  keen  observer  of  human  nat- 
ure, and  as  possessing  that  practical  talent  which  he  him- 
self lacked.  In  writing  to  his  fond,  exacting  mother  he 
was  always  in  leading-strings;  in  addressing  his  brother 
he  dropped  to  mere  colloquy;  but  when  attempting  de- 
scription for  the  perusal  of  his  father  he  was  put  on  his 
mettle.  Hence  in  this  effusion,  crude  as  it  is,  and  barely 
suggesting  the  future  author,  we  detect  more  of  decided 
literary  effort,  and  indeed  a  forecast  of  some  of  his  best 
work,  such,  for  example,  as  the  scenes  in  "  The  Cloister  and 
the  Hearth,"  where  he  contrasts  the  mind  of  the  Church 
with  that  of  the  World.  But  here,  as  in  all  his  earlier 
letters,  there  is  noticeable  none  of  that  magnificent  polish, 
still  less  the  crystallization  of  ideas,  which  was  the  char- 
acteristic of  his  style  as  an  author.  He  had  not  as  yet  be- 
gun to  school  his  pen,  and  was  wont  in  after-years  to  ridi- 
cule the  diffuseness  which  he  subsequently  labored  to  cor- 


The  Hospice  of  St.  Bernard.  133 

rect.  We  see  here  none  the  less  the  quick  eye  for  effects, 
the  clear  diagnosis  of  men's  minds,  and  the  love  of  epigram, 
which  was  one  of  his  distinguishing  traits  through  life. 
All,  it  will  be  remarked,  is  in  embryo,  and  at  times  shapeless 
and  commonplace,  disjecta  membra,  requiring  collocation 
and  concentration.  A  biography,  however,  must  neces- 
sarily be  a  record  of  development,  and  for  this  reason  we 
give  the  less  matured  as  leading  up  by  degrees  to  the  best 
of  our  author.  The  letter  opens  with  lines  quoted  from 
memory,  as  is  evidenced  by  an  erasure.  We  give  it,  as  the 
rest  of  this  series,  word  for  word : 

" '  Seven  weary  uphill  leagues  we  sped 
The  setting  sun  to  see, 
Sullen  and  grim  he  sank  to  rest, 
Sullen  and  grim  sank  we ; 
Six  sleepless  hours  of  night  we  passed 
The  rising  sun  to  see, 
Sullen  and  grim  he  rose  at  last, 
Sullen  and  grim  rose  we.' 

Milton,  "  Pr.  R."  1st  Book. 

Hotel  de  la  Tour,  Mautigxy,  Wednesday. 

"  My  DEAU  Father, — I  write  to  you  in  the  middle  of  a  pedestrian  tour. 
On  Friday  afternoon  last  I  walked  from  Geneva,  knapsack  on  my  back,  to 
Bonneville — eighteen  miles ;  the  next  day  to  Chiles  and  Vallenches,  char 
to  Chamounix.  From  Cliamounix,  the  next  day,  I  walked  i(i^  Montanvert, 
and  hopped  about  with  a  pole  on  the  Mer  de  Glace ;  the  next  day  from 
Chamounix,  whither  one  is  forced  to  return  from  Montanvert.  I  walked, 
and  rode  upon  a  chance  mule,  to  Martigny ;  from  Martigny  next  day  to 
Orlieve,  thence  walked  the  grand  route  to  L' Hospice  de  St.  Bernard,  from 
thence  to  the  Col  de  Ferr)',  Orlieve,  and  so  to  Martigny.  In  the  course  of 
the  excursion  I  have  supped  full  of  the  terrible  and  sublime,  and  am  now 
no  more  excited  by  entering  a  gloomy  gorge,  with  great  masses  of  rock 
bulging  out  from  the  top  of  great,  soaring  mountains  over  my  head,  than 
you  are  when  Green  Hill  happens  to  burst  upon  your  view,  as  you  destine 
to  destruction  the  hereditary  beeches.   I  have  been  unfortunate  with  Mont 


134  Memoir  of  CJiarles  Reade. 

Blanc.  Although  nobody  knows  so  well  when  the  sun  is  out  of  bed  as  ho, 
lie  wore  his  nightcap  all  the  time  I  was  at  Chamounix,  and  when  I  got  to 
the  other  side  of  him  he  appeared  no  higher  than  his  neighbors.  The  fact 
was,  he  was  the  most  distant  of  them  all,  and  the  ground,  or  rather  snow, 
I  trod  upon  was  seven  thousand  six  hundred  and  forty  feet  above  the  level 
of  the  sea. 

"  The  Aiguilles,  as  they  are  called,  that  shoot  up  nearly  under  the  travel- 
ler's nose,  when  he  is  at  the  top  of  the  little  hill  Montanvert,  tower  perpen- 
dicularly like  a  spear's  head.  The  light,  fleecy  clouds  of  a  fine  day  sail 
across  their  necks,  but  their  points  and  heads  peer  out  above  everything, 
so  lofty  and  so  near,  that,  like  high  buildings,  they  appear  as  you  look  at 
them  to  be  moving  slowly  along  the  sky.  I  care  little  how  high  above  some 
sea  a  hundred  leagues  off  any  given  hill  is  known  by  calculation  to  be ; 
the  mountain  that  rises  highest  above  the  level  of  my  eyes  as  I  look  at  it 
pleases  them  most. 

"  You  have  heard  and  read  and  seen  pictures  of  the  dogs  of  St.  Bernard, 
how  they  pick  a  dead  man  out  of  the  snow,  bark  three  times,  lick  him  dry, 
cut  back  to  the  convent  {nc\  ring  the  bell,  nab  the  porter  as  soon  as  he 
appears,  and  draw  him  by  the  coat-tails  to  the  place,  and  whine  till  the 
poor  man  is  brought  to  life  again  with  blankets  and  spirits  in  the  kitchen ; 
at  other  times,  when  they  think  it  looks  likely  to  snow,  how  they  turn  out 
with  a  bottle  of  cognac  round  their  necks,  throw  themselves,  as  if  by  merest 
accident,  in  a  traveller's  way,  refresh  him,  and  slyly  conduct  him  to  the 
monastery. 

"  Such  tales  I,  of  yore,  amused  myself  with,  but  as  soon  as  I  had  finally 
fixed  on  my  profession,  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  must  make  up  my  mind 
to  conjugate  the  verb  '  humbug '  in  the  active  voice  alone.  As  I  ascended 
to  St.  Bernard  I  said  to  myself, 'What  do  these  dogs  really  do?'  Why, 
they  are  taken  out  by  a  servant,  and  when  they  find  a  body,  they  scratch, 
as  every  other  dog  omits  no  opportunity  of  doing.  One  of  the  monks,  in 
answer  to  the  question  I  put,  told  me  the  dogs  neve)'  went  out  alone  ;  how- 
ever, I  must  tell  you,  that  when  they  find  themselves  in  the  immediate 
vicinity  of  a  body  they  set  up  a  loud  bark,  which  brings  the  accompanying 
servant  to  the  spot.  So  that  others  have  flattered,  and  I  done  justice  to 
the  animals. 

"  I  must  tell  you  something  about  my  visit  to  the  hospice.  I  started 
from  Martigny  with  a  char-a-banc  mule  and  guide,  detached  the  mule  from 
the  cliar  at  Sulde,  a  village  half-way,  and  rode  him  to  the  hospice.  On  my 
arrival  I  was  shown  by  a  monk  into  the  salle-a-mangcr,  where  were  five 


The  Hospice  of  St.  Bernard.  135 

strangers,  who  rose  on  my  entrance,  and  as  we  sat  down  to  dinner  immedi- 
ately, I  have  no  doubt  I  had  been  descried  from  a  distance  and  waited  for. 
The  dinner,  unlike  any  other  in  this  country,  consisted  of  a  succession  of 
single  dislies,  each  carved  by  a  monk,  for  I  must  tell  you  that,  as  there 
were  two  ladies  in  the  company,  the  monks  could  not,  by  their  rules,  dine 
with  us,  as  otherwise  they  would,  but  were  represented  by  one  of  their 
number.  First,  soup ;  second,  fritters,  heignets  de  pommes,  as  they  call 
them  ;  third,  stewed  beef ;  fourth,  roast  veal ;  fifth,  cheese  and  nuts,  which 
made  a  contemporaneous  appearance.  Our  monk  was  young,  well-bred, 
and  well-mannered.  He  wore  the  dress  of  his  order — a  black  fool's-cap, 
with  a  round  tassel  at  top,  a  coarse  black  robe  belted  round  the  waist,  a 
vest  buttoned  up  to  the  throat  with  pretty  little  round  convex  buttons 
planted  half  an  inch  apart,  a  military  stock  made  of  little  beads,  a  piece 
of  white  tape  curled  round  his  neck,  and,  descending  his  breast,  was  lost 
to  sight ;  at  the  end  of  this  no  doubt  hung  some  religious  toy  or  other.  I 
caught  (though  you  may  be  sure  I  was  all  ears)  nothing  of  the  conversa- 
tion but  this  :  he  told  us  that  a  military  man,  a  friend  of  the  superior's, 
having  seen  through  the  world,  and  imbibed  a  thorough  distaste  for  it, 
obtained  a  vacant  place  among  the  confreres  of  St.  Bernard.  His  boxes, 
five  or  six  in  number,  were  sent  up,  and  the  next  afternoon  he  came. 
'  Much  cooler  here  than  in  the  valley,'  says  he.  '  Qui,  monsieur,  ici  Pair 
est  iovjours  vif,^  responded  a  monk.  The  next  morning  at  breakfast  there 
was  a  palpable  fog,  or  rather — which  of  course,  from  its  height,  is  an 
every-day  occurrence — St.  Bernard  was  deep  in  the  clouds.  The  soldier, 
tired  of  war's  alarms,  conversed  a  little,  eat  much,  and  meditated  more.  At 
noon  the  sentinel  saw  a  figure  wrapped  in  a  military  cloak  descending  the 
bill  with  rapid  strides,  and  a  note  left  in  the  refectory  hoped  the  brethren 
would  not  put  themselves  to  inconvenience  with  the  baggage,  as  its  removal 
from  St.  Bernard's  was  an  affair  of  secondary  importance,  and  did  not  call 
for  despatch. 

"  The  wine  here  is  delicious.  For  this  I  had  been  prepared  by  my  guide, 
who  wb«n  I  asked  hira  if  the  holy  brethren  drank  wine,  responded  exactly 
thus, ' Oui,  oui,  et  du  bon  vin I  He!  he !  et  du  bon  vin !  et  du  bon  vin,  he ! 
he .'  he  I  et  du  bon  vin,  lie  !  he  I  he  !  he  P  If  no  sign  of  mortification  ap- 
pears in  the  stomachs  and  faces  of  the  monks  of  St.  Bernard,  it  is  never- 
theless true  that  they  devote  themselves  to  a  deadly  climate  for  the  benefit 
of  their  fellow-creatures;  four  young  monks  out  of  their  small  number 
were  lying  dead  not  long  ago.  In  winter  of  course  it  is  cruelly  cold ;  in 
summer  it  is  best  described  by  the  epithet  (spelt  aright)  I  have  put  above 


186  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

into  a  reverend  gentleman's  luouth.  However,  take  an  instance :  there  Is 
a  little  building  adjoins  the  convent  («t<-)  used  as  a  morgue.  Into  tliis  all 
travellers  found  dead  and  unowned  are  put  for  the  purpose  of  recognition. 
Here,  such  is  the  nature  of  the  air  of  St.  Bernard,  they  remain  for  three 
years  in  such  a  state  tiiat  their  friends  would  recognize  them.  The  features 
and  character  of  the  face  remain,  and  the  whole  carcass  turns  into  '  bones 
and  leather,'  without  decomposing.  These  things  I  saw  within  two  yards 
of  me,  but  seeing  is  not  believing ;  my  mind  could  not  realize  the  thing, 
and  I  was  no  more  horrified  by  the  sight  than  by  Burns's  description  of  such 
things  in '  Tam  O'Shanter,'  though  the  reality  in  point  of  fact  leaves  the 
fiction  far  behind.  The  monks  have  a  harrowing  plan  of  putting  the  poor 
creatures  in  the  morgue  into  the  attitude  in  which  they  were  found  dead  in 
the  snow,which  of  course  enhances  the  ghastly  effect.  I  have  a  distinct  re- 
membrance of  one  man  who  stands  opposite  the  window,  his  arms  folded 
over  his  stomach,  with  as  digagee  an  air  as  if  he  could  step  over  the  way 
and  shake  hands  with  you  in  a  moment :  but  I  am  thankful  he  does  not 
haunt  me  in  my  dreams,  as  perhaps  he  would  some  persons. 

"  After  dinner  the  monk  left  us.  We  chatted,  I  with  a  German  who 
spoke  English,  and  went  to  bed.  At  half-past  six  in  the  morning  a  single 
knock,  heavy  and  deep  like  an  Oxford  dun,  and  in  came  through  the  half- 
open  door  the  black  fool's-cap ;  it  remained  a  moment,  and  exit.  '  That 
means  I'm  to  get  up,'  said  I,  and  up  I  got.  As  I  was  dressing  I  heard  the 
organ  peal  at  a  little  distance  with  fine  effect.  When  I  came  down  the 
house  was  clear.  All  my  fellow-voyagers  were  off.  I  drank  three  cups 
of  coffee,  and  then  the  monk  of  yesterday  came  to  show  me  the  place.  I 
was  puzzled  how  to  pay  him,  for  you  must  know  that  the  society  is  not  so 
rich  as  it  was,  and  it  is  the  thing  for  all  who  can  afford  it  to  pay  as  much 
as  they  would  at  an  inn,  but  no  compulsion.  However,  I  watched  my  op- 
portunity, which  soon  occurred.  The  monk  was  showing  me  the  chapel ; 
I  discovered  at  a  distance  the  '  tronc  des  aumones.'  On  this  I  got  my  two 
five-franc  pieces  in  my  hand,  and  as  we  passed  the  box,  slipped  them  in 
with  a  nothing-at-all  sort  of  air.  This,  I  was  afterwards  informed,  is  the 
comme  ilfaut  method  of  doing  the  thing.  I  did  not  buy  at  Martigny  a  St. 
Bernard  puppy,  because  I  was  not  sure  how  you  and  the  mamma  would  re- 
ceive it,  and  was  sure  that  I  must  give  a  good  deal  of  money  for  it,  without 
the  positive  certainty  of  getting  the  genuine  breed — the  puppies  at  the 
hospital  were  all  disposed  of.  As  we  were  going  my  guide  came  up  to  the 
monk  and  made  a  remark,  on  which  the  monk  patted  him  on  the  back, 
said,  ^Ahf  coquin  P  and,  taking  bim  by  the  ear,  twisted  him  round  a  bit. 


The  Hospice  of  /St.  Bernard.  137 

and  gave  me  to  understand  (I  always  use  this  phrase  when  I  report  a 
Frenchman  or  a  Swiss — it  is  a  safe  one)  that  the  fellow  wanted  to  pass  for 
a  wit. 

"  My  journey  has  so  far  interrupted  my  pen  that  I  must  sign  this  letter 
Friday,  Geneva.     In  a  day  or  two  I  hope  to  be  on  my  way  to  Thun  and 

Lucerne.  Mr.  N is  in  my  hotel,  looking  as  stiff,  awkward,  and  conceited 

as  ever.     He  the  living  representative  of  T !    Ma  foi  /    A  worn-out 

linen  draper's  yard-measure  covered  with  a  little  worn-out  manufactured 
lace,  a  miserable  mixture  of  crooked  stiffness  and  graceless  frivolity.  But 
I  beg  pardon.  He  is  a  neighbor  of  yours,  and  a  friend  of  the  Blackstones. 
Peace  be  with  him,  and  may  he  never,  by  inserting  his  great  stolid  coun- 
tenance in  a  room  where  I  am  at  breakfast,  provoke  me  to  abuse  him, 
pens,  ink  and  paper,  and  your  attention  prepared  for  better  topics.  You 
see  I  attempt  no  labored  description  of  mountains.  It  is  impossible. 
Poets  and  painters  fail  to  give  an  adequate  or  distinct  idea  of  them.  That 
can  only  be  gained  by  seeing  them.  The  finest  mountains  I  have  seen  are 
the  Mauvaise  Langue,  the  Dent  du  Midi,  another  hill  whose  name  I  forget, 
but  nine  thousand  feet  high,  and  covered  with  shining  ice  for  a  mile  at  the 
top,  the  Aiguilles  about  Montanvert,  and  Mont  Blanc,  from  a  spot  ten 
miles  west  of  Cliamounix,  where  I  confess  he  looked  among  his  neighbors 
qualh  inter  viburna  cupresstis.  I  shall  write  soon  to  my  mother,  and 
would  of  course  have  written  before,  but  that  a  traveller's  letters  are  public 
property  in  a  family,  unless  indeed  he  records  the  sayings  and  doings  of 
Frenchwomen,  in  which  case  they  would  be  as  well  confined  to  the  perusal 
of  members  of  the  foul  sex  in  England. 

"  Your  affectionate  Son,  Charles. 

"  P.S. — If  in  consequence  of  my  description  you  come  to  Switzerland 
before  I  return,  do  not  forget  to  ask  at  all  the  inns  in  the  mountains  for 
Chamois  cutlets !" 

It  was  a  strange  coincidence  that  some  forty  years  after 
this  visit  to  the  Hospice  of  St.  Bernard  was  penned,  a 
cousin  of  the  writer,  himself  a  retired  officer,  should  have 
donned  the  monkish  cowl,  and  though  he  did  not  change 
his  mind  quite  so  rapidly  as  the  soldier  tired  of  war's 
alarms,  who  found  the  atmosphere  of  the  Alps  unpleasant- 
ly vif,  notwithstanding  was  led  to  discover  that  monasti- 


138  Memoir  of  Charles  Meade. 

cisra  was  not  his  vocation.  The  cloister,  even  the  Magdalen 
cloister,  with  its  Epicurean  rule,  was  never  to  the  taste  of 
our  author.  From  its  inception  he  held  the  mediaevalism 
of  his  uncle's  nephew,  Frederic  Faber,  in  as  hearty  con- 
tempt as  Carlyle's  earnestness.  In  1839,  moreover,  the 
ordinary  English  gentleman  knew  less  than  nothing  con- 
cerning the  Roman  organization,  and  although  nowadays, 
to  confuse  convent  with  monastery,  or  to  use  each  word 
indiscriminately,  would  argue  crass  ignorance,  at  that 
period  it  was  considered  virile  to  ignore  the  Roman  Church 
as  an  effete  superstition,  awaiting  a  final  coup  de  grace. 
George  Stanley  Faber  always  spoke  of  Rome  with  rude 
contempt,  and  his  authority  was  reverenced  at  Ipsden  as 
being  infallible. 

The  last  letter  of  the  series  unfortunately  was  torn  in 
the  opening,  so  it  contains  a  few  unimportant  ellipses.  It 
is  written  in  a  vein  of  humor  indicative  of  high  spirits, 
and  literally  teems  with  euphuism.  Surely  never  was 
there  a  more  light-hearted,  merry,  free-handed  young  gen- 
tleman ?  In  his  later  years,  when  life  had  become  well- 
nigh  a  burden,  and  the  wild  cry  arose  from  lips  satiated 
with  success,  "  Give  me  back  my  youth  !"  his  mind  re- 
verted in  bitter  contrast  to  this  golden  span  of  his  splendid 
manhood.  Those  who  knew  him,  moreover,  only  after  a 
long  acquaintance  with  the  world  had  superinduced  a  habit 
of  viewing  every  one,  even  his  nearest  and  dearest,  with 
an  eye  of  suspicion,  could  hardly  have  imagined  how  debon- 
naire  and  simple  his  natural  disposition  was.  His  letter 
shall  give  a  likeness  in  miniature  of  what  he  was.    As  thus : 

Berne,  Mercredi,  Quatorze. 
" My  dear  Motiikr, — Amidst  mountains  and  vallcjs  though  wc  may 
roam,  be  it  ever  so  level,  there's  no  place  like  home.     Thitherward  my 
face  is  at  length  turned,  and  I  think  you  may  expect  me,  if  nothing  cross 


The  Hospice  of  St.  Bernard.  139 

should  happen,  in  less  than  a  week  after  receipt  of  this.  I  waited  more 
than  a  week  for  Mr.  Baring's  frank  at  Geneva ;  it  never  came,  and  never 
will  come.  However,  I  have  given  the  Post  at  Geneva  instructions  to  for- 
ward it  to  Basle,  where  I  hope  to  be  in  two  days,  and  whither  I  sent  my 
luggage  from  Geneva  par  voulage.  I  was  au  desespoir,  when  most  unex- 
pectedly some  money  arrived  from  Oxford.  On  this,  as  I  had  written  to 
you  to  send  me  some  to  Cologne,  I  thought  I  could  not  do  better  than  leave 
Geneva,  where  I  was  wasting  time  and  money  most  horribly.  I  made  my 
little  tour  through  the  Oberland,  and  if  I  find  the  money  at  Cologne,  I  shall 
come  bravely  into  port  after  visiting  both  Brussels  and  Antwerp.  Mr. 
Baring's  frank  I  have  given  up ;  however,  I  shall  of  course  leave  my  direc- 
tion on  paper  at  the  Post-office,  Basle,  as  I  did  at  Geneva,  and  perhaps 
about  the  fall  of  the  leaf  the  money  you  so  kindly  devoted  to  the  least  de- 
serving member  will  flow  gently  back  by  some  devious  channel  into  the 
bosom  of  our  family  at  Ipsden. 

"  How  few  people  ever  dream  of  thinking  for  themselves,  even  in  mat- 
ters of  taste,  although  every  language  possesses  a  proverb  that  hints  at  the 
propriety  of  so  doing.  Chamounix,  the  great  lion  of  tourists,  is  no  more 
to  be  compared  to  the  Oberland  than  chalk  to  sardonyx.  I  grant  that  in 
Savoy  one  gloomy  gorge  succeeds  to  another,  wherever  you  go,  in  a  sur- 
prising manner ;  but  there  is  no  contrast,  without  which  all  pictures  are  de- 
ficient, and  without  which  all  scenes  soon  become  distasteful.  Now  the 
Oberland  in  the  first  place  beats  Savoy  out  of  the  field  with  its  own  weapons. 
The  Jungfrau,  Wetterhorn,  Silberhorn,  etc.,  being  infinitely  grander  than 
Mont  Blanc,  which  is  a  great  sloping  hill  that  never  looks  high,  because 
when  you  are  close  under  it  the  top  is  fifteen  miles  from  you,  whereas  the 
mountains  I  have  mentioned  rise  perpendicularly  thirteen  thousand  feet 
from  the  very  green  valley  you  walk  upon,  nothing  but  stone,  ice,  and  ever- 
lasting snow.  Oh !  the  walk  over  the  Grunnig  to  Muhlinen,  the  first  fifteen 
miles  nothing  but  rock,  the  last  fifteen  a  broad  valley  between  low  hills, 
bright  green  from  top  to  bottom,  watered  with  rivulets,  and  studded  with 
thirty  thousand  chalets,  or  picturesque  little  cowhouses.  Then  from 
Muhlinen  by  the  Thuner  Sec,  Interlaken,  etc.,  over  the  Wenghern  Alp  to 
the  hotel  at  the  foot  of  the  Jungfrau.  In  this  walk  the  contrast  was  in- 
verted, and  we  passed  through  the  relics  of  the  rich  valley  of  Frutigau, 
walked  through  groves  of  walnut-trees,  by  the  side  of  a  lake  bluer  than 
the  sky.  I  saw  the  Stauback  waterfall  fall  like  a  horse's  tail  three  hun- 
dred and  twenty-six  feet  before  it  touched  the  ground.  .  .  .  '  Aujourdhui 
nous  avoru  vues  lea  arbret  et  lea  fruits,  et  au  prisent  nous — prisent  tense,  les 


140  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

fflaciert  ileitielles  P  said  my  guide  as  we  stopped  right  opposite  the  Jung- 
frau  at  the  door  of  tlie  Auberge,  and  at  tiiat  moment  a  ranz  dcs  vachcs, 
sung  in  full  harmony  by  some  Swiss  girls,  stole  over  the  Wenghcrn  Alp 
behind  us,  and  made  me  feel  as  if  I  was  that  moment  changed  for  the  first 
time  from  a  vegetable  to  an  angel.  The  walks  from  the  Jungfrau  to 
Grindclwald,  and  from  thence  to  Meyringon — there  you  have  the  contrast  of 
juxtaposition,  as  before  of  succession,  so  to  speak ;  frowning  crags  on  the 
one  side,  laughing  lawns  on  the  other,  all  the  way.  The  road  lies  over 
grass,  and  every  now  and  then  you  pass  from  the  bright,  hot  sun  into  a 
pine-grove,  dark  as  a  cavern  and  cool  as  a  grotto,  to  emerge,  perhaps, 
when  a  new  mountain  may  be  ready  to  stare  at  you  here  and  a  now  green 
to  smile  on  you  there. 

"  I  have  ascended  the  Righi  and  the  Rothom,  which  is  much  higher ; 
but  the  most  wonderful  scenes  are  not,  in  fact,  the  most  thrillingly  de- 
lightful. I  walked  from  Lucerne  to  the  top  of  the  Righi  in  four  hours 
and  a  quarter,  in  order  to  win  a  wager  proposed  by  the  Swiss  that  I  could 
not  possibly  do  it  under  five  hours.  The  town  is  eight  miles  from  the  bot- 
tom of  the  hill.  I  am  always  tired  and  blown  for  the  first  two  or  three 
miles  in  mounting  a  hill,  but  get  fresher  and  fresher  the  further  I  advance. 
Coming  down  kills  me,  Ufaut  avouet-f  However,  I  think  with  this  training 
I  shall  be  able  to  walk  against  the  old  mule  in  September.  Who  shoots? 
I  have  seen  one  brood  of  a  kind  of  ptarmigan,  and  two  dead  chamois,  that 
is  all,  in  all  my  excursion.  You  didn't  say  where  William  thinks  of  going 
if  he  leaves  Ipsden  in  November.  The  habitable  globe  possesses  no  more 
delightful  spot  than  Crieff  on  a  fine  day,  or  rather  the  hill  between  Crieff 
and  Menzies.  When  I  meet  a  woman  on  the  road  I  draw  off  my  tile,  and 
utter  sounds  to  this  effect :  '  Guy  ten  dacq  yung  fr — !'  This  is  looked  for. 
If  you  don't  do  it  you  are  set  down  as  un  lete  Anglais.  I  fall  easily  into 
the  manners  of  the  different  nations  I  pass  through,  and  find  myself  in- 
variably the  originator  of  the  conversation,  whet/ier  my  neighbor  be  Frertch, 
German,  or  Italian,  or  English.  I  find  the  foreigners  as  shy  of  beginning 
with  us  every  bit  as  we  are  with  them.  This  is  not  a  methodical  letter. 
When  I  return  I  will  go  over  my  route  with  you  by  the  aid  of  Nellie's  map, 
and  point  out  where  I  eat  and  slept.  I  will  show  you  the  scene  of  any 
little  incident  I  may  have  witnessed,  and  intersperse  all  with  agreeable  re- 
flections such  as  are  calculated  to  combine  amusement  with  instruction. 
Minds  of  the  higher  order  will  generalize.  Have  you  mentioned  in  Mr. 
Baring's  letter  whether  the  game  is  likely  to  be  plentiful  this  year? 
Probably  not.    I  wonder  what  made  me  think  of  such  a  matter — so  trivial ! 


The  Hospice  of  St.  Bernard.  141 

I  am  vevy  glad  Mr.  Blake  consents  to  my  visiting  his  office,  and  I  hope  I 
shall  have  strength  of  mind  and  body  to  mount  a  little  henceforth  in  the 
social  world  as  I  have  been  lately  doing  in  the  physical. 
"  Love  to  alL  Your  affectionate  Son, 

"  Charles  Reade. 

"  P.S. — You  do  not  say  whether  our  little  Austrian  has  come  back.  I 
packed  up  two  Swiss  songs  for  her ;  whether  they  are  either  good  or  new 
is  a  glorious  uncertaint}',  because,  though  I  can't  read  music,  I  have  got 
eyes,  so  selected  my  '  chansons '  according  to  the  execution  of  the  vignettes 
on  their  backs.  Also  a  shoe-horn  made  of  a  chamois'  horn.  .  .  .  one  or 
two  souvenirs  of  different  places.  Voxla  tout!  Having  now  inserted  in 
this  letter  every  phrase,  French  and  German,  with  which  I  am  acquainted, 
I  think  it  a  proper  moment  to  retire  gracefully  from  public  admiration !" 

Here  follows  a  pen-and-ink  sketch  of  a  traveller,  knap- 
sack and  alpenstock,  bowing  his  adieux  with  this  added 
apology : 

"  Sorry  to  spoil  a  work  of  art.  If  I  had  not  dried  the  above  with  my 
fingers  you  would  have  had  to  wait  another  day  for  the  entire  communi- 
cation." 

The  "Austrian"  alluded  to  in  this  letter  is  clearly  his 
sister  Ellinor,  a  vocalist  of  some  pretensions,  M'ho  was 
touring  at  the  time  in  the  Tyrol.  The  Mr.  Baring  who 
failed  to  frank  Mrs.  Reade's  letter  was  probably  Mr. 
Thomas  Baring,  the  head  of  the  firm  whose  father.  Sir 
Thomas,  was  for  many  years  one  of  the  firmest  friends  of 
the  Squire  of  Ipsden.  Being  ignorant  of  how  to  transmit 
money  abroad  —  it  is  doubtful  whether  circular  notes  had 
by  then  become  an  institution  —  Mrs.  Reade  in  all  like- 
lihood had  requested  her  great  banker  friend  to  manage 
this  for  her,  but  very  possibly  had  omitted,  by  way  of 
preliminary,  to  forward  him  the  money,  for  she  was  amaz- 
ingly unpractical.  Whether  the  missing  letter  ever  reached 
its  destination  remains  a  mystery  without  a  clew.     We 


142  Memoi?'  of  (Jharlca  Reade. 

may  be  certain,  notwithstanding,  that  son  Charles  was  not 
a  loser  to  that  extent. 

The  passing  allusion  to  the  Ipsden  birds,  and  the  paren- 
thetical inquiry,  "  Who  shoots  ?"  tell  their  own  tale.  The 
Ipsden  estate  ran  from  Stoke  Marmyon,  or  Littlestoke, 
the  fine  old  homestead  of  which  is  a  conspicuous  object 
from  the  railway  bridge  over  the  Thames  at  Moulsford, 
to  Stoke-row  Common,  by  Nettlebed.  Quite  half  the 
estate  is  arable,  and  Ipsden  farm  being  one  of  the  most 
productive  of  cereals  in  the  county,  birds  were  plentiful, 
as  also  hares.  The  remaining  half  of  the  estate  is  dense 
beech-wood,  with  a  large  rabbit-warren  for  its  centre ; 
and  the  weird  common*  where,  after  Prestonpans,  Mary 
Reade's  ill-fated  husband.  General  Mackintoshe,  took  ref- 
uge from  the  pursuing  soldiers  of  King  George.  Sport, 
therefore,  was  a  moral  certainty,  far  more  so  than  at  pres- 
ent, for  whereas  the  woods  now  teem  with  pheasants,  there 
remain  but  few  hares,  and  the  rabbits  have  been  well-nigh 
exterminated.  Partridge-shooting,  however,  was  the  spe- 
cialty of  Ipsden,  and  Charles  Reade  was  as  passionately 
fond  of  it  as  his  father.  An  inquiry,  therefore,  about  the 
birds,  in  an  epistle  dated  August  14,  somewhat  empha- 
sizes the  writer's  opening  asseveration  that  "there's  no 
place  like  home."  Switzerland  evidently  was  all  very  well, 
but  not  after  August  31st. 

It  mast  be  added  that  Charles  Reade  shot,  as  he  did 
everything  else  of  the  manly  sort,  well,  but  not  with  abso- 

*  Called  the  Scot's  Common,  because  General  Mackintoshe  with  his  com- 
panions encamped  there.  After  three  weeks'  concealment  by  his  father- 
in-law,  the  General's  lair  was  discovered,  and  he  and  his  comrades  bolted 
over  the  Downs  to  Shoreham  in  Sussex,  where  they  put  to  sea  in  a  storm, 
and  were  drowned.  Ilis  widow  lived  and  died  at  Ipsden.  The  spot  is  worth 
a  visit. 


The  Hospice  of  St.  Bernard.  143 

lute  equanimity.  Few  men  bore  the  mortification  of  miss- 
ing a  bird  with  worse  grace — at  the  moment.  Ten  minutes 
later  the  disappointment  was  forgotten,  and  he  who  in  the 
loudest  terms  would  blaspheme  all  the  Fates  because  a 
miserable  hare  escaped  destruction,  would  sit  down  to 
luncheon  and  philosophize,  strike  extraordinary  attitudes, 
and  even  dance  his  favorite  double  shuffle.  The  game- 
keeper, William  Johnson,  adored  "  Master  Chawse,"  and 
so  also,  to  reveal  a  secret,  did  the  local  poacher.  Jack 
Clayton. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

CEEMONAPHILISM. 

DuRUfG  the  years  immediately  following  his  brief  tour 
abroad,  Charles  Reade  oscillated  between  London,  Ipsden, 
and  Scotland.  It  is  a  matter  for  regret  that  we  possess 
the  most  meagre  details  only  of  his  tours.  He  was  a  great 
pedestrian,  and  withal  preferred  to  carry  his  gun.  The 
Thames,  moreover,  in  which  his  father  owned  a  large  eyot, 
with  sundry  fishing  rights,  had  made  him  a  fisherman — to 
his  cost,  be  it  added,  for  it  is  a  fact  that  he  was  unwise 
enough  to  risk  a  few  hundreds  when  they  could  ill  be 
spared  from  his  exchequer  in  a  herring-fishery  venture, 
which  was  far  from  proving  a  financial  success. 

It  was  his  habit  in  those  early  days  of  railways  to  avoid 
the  trouble  both  of  packing  up,  carrying  luggage,  and  form- 
ing plans  an  hour  in  advance,  by  keeping  a  complete  outfit  at 
different  points  of  the  compass.  He  provided  himself  with 
a  wardrobe  on  a  really  lavish  scale  at  Oxford  ;  a  second 
and  similar  outfit  for  Ipsden,  where  his  chamber  was  held 
sacred  to  his  sole  use  ;  and  a  third  for  his  lodgings  in  town. 
Thus  he  could  appear  at  any  one  of  these  points  without  a 
shred  of  luggage,  and  a  very  pleasant  arrangement  it  was 
for  a  gentleman  who  never  quite  knew  his  own  mind. 
Moreover,  the  telegraph  was  not  then  in  the  land,  and  rail- 
way travelling  without  luggage  is  robbed  of  half  its  ter- 
rors. He  felt  bored  with  Leicester  Square.  What  more 
sensible  than  to  drive  to  Paddington,  run  down  to  Mouls- 


Cremonaphilism.  145 

ford,  and  walk  across  to  the  paternal  mansion  ?  Oxford 
with  its  dons  and  duns  wearied  him.  What  better  than 
to  stroll  over  Magdalen  Bridge,  put  his  best  leg  forward, 
and  by  degrees  pass  Nuneham,  Dorchester,  Shillingford, 
and  Crowmarsb,  until  at  length  the  glorious  beech-woods 
greeted  his  eye  from  White  Hill,  and  he  felt  himself  at 
home  ?  Or  mayhap  the  Squire's  temper  was  ruffled,  or  his 
mother  forgot  to  be  quite  as  fondling  as  usual.  Then  how 
simple  to  order  the  carriage  at  a  moment's  notice,  drive  to 
Reading  and  catch  the  express,  which  in  three  quarters  of 
an  hour  would  land  him  in  the  metropolis  ? 

His  lodgings  in  the  vicinity  of  Leicester  Square  were  a 
curiosity.  He  had  developed  a  craze  for  violins,  and  these 
instruments,  with  rosin  and  catgut  in  profusion,  lay  strewed 
about  the  floor,  in  combination  with  articles  of  wearing- 
apparel,  books,  and  playbills.  To  one  entering  the  rooms, 
however,  the  most  startling  phenomenon  was  what  we  may 
term  thciv  fauna.  The  whole  place  was  alive  with  squir- 
rels, who  bolted  up  the  curtains,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  them- 
selves as  in  their  native  beech-woods  at  Ipsden.  It  was 
from  this  coigne  of  vantage  that  Charles  Reade  sallied  forth 
in  quest  of  character.  Dickens  had  rapidly  built  up  a  rep- 
utation by  reproducing  oddities,  and  it  would  seem  that 
our  author,  when  he  first  began  to  dream  dreams  of  author- 
ship, imagined  that  the  short-cut  to  literary  success  was 
to  pick  up  and  photograph  some  human  porcupine.  In 
after-years,  as  we  know,  he  attached  far  more  importance 
to  construction  than  to  character  ;  but  in  early  life,  like 
Jerrold,  Albert  Smith,  and  the  rest  of  what  may  be  termed 
the  Dickens  school,  he  felt  the  fascination  of  inimitable 
character  delineation,  and  it  is  a  fact  that  in  his  researches 
among  the  by-ways  of  humanity  he  not  only  disguised 
himself,  but  studied  low  life.  It  was  probably  while  thus 
7 


146  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

in  quest  of  the  odd  and  angular  that  he  encountered  a 
craftsman  learned  in  the  art  of  fiddle-making,  a  being, 
moreover,  with  as  keen  a  scent  for  the  habitat  of  a  rare 
violin  as  the  truffle-dog  for  the  fungus  beneath  tlie  roots 
of  trees.  Whether  this  man  were  a  Belgian  or  a  French- 
man is  uncertain.  Enough  that  he  had  devoted  his  life 
to  the  violin,  not  merely  as  a  maker,  but  as  a  virtuoso, 
and  by  his  long  connection  with  the  trade  in  Paris  had 
acquired  positive  knowledge  of  where,  throughout  the 
world,  all  the  rarest  violins  were  to  be  discovered.  Be- 
tween him  and  Charles  Reade  there  existed  for  a  time  a 
sort  of  partnership,  and  that  he  initiated  his  patron  into 
the  mysteries  of  the  craft  may  be  inferred  from  the  fol- 
lowing anecdote : 

Charles  Reade  was  journeying  from  Scotland  to  Lon- 
don, and  as  was  his  wont  through  life,  even  in  the  days 
when  he  was  far  from  rich,  travelled  first-class.  The  way 
was  long,  and  to  relieve  its  tedium  he  fell  into  conversa- 
tion with  his  vis-d-vis,  an  individual  in  every  way  prepos- 
sessing. After  a  while  the  desultory  chatter  accidentally 
turned  on  fiddles,  and  the  stranger  remarked,  passim,  that 
he  possessed  one  by  a  particular  maker. 

"  Then,"  smiled  Charles  Reade  knowingly,  "  I  have  the 
honor  of  addressing  Lord ?" 

The  stranger  shook  his  head. 

"  No  ?"  echoed  our  author.  "  In  that  case  you  must  be 
Colonel ?" 

The  stranger  at  once  confessed  that  the  surmise  was 
correct,  but  asked  how,  in  the  name  of  wonder,  he  came 
thus  to  be  able  to  detect  his  identity. 

"Because,"  said  Charles  Reade,  "there  are  only  two 

violins  of  the  maker  you  name  in  this  country.    Lord 

has  one,  you  the  other."    In  a  memorandum  among  Charles 


CremonaphUism.  147 

Reade's  papers  we  find  a  casual  allusion  to  the  Cremona 
violin  as  "  a  worthless  thing,"  whereof,  so  he  writes,  I  was 
"the  first  connoisseur  in  England,"  from  which  we  infer 
that  he  lived  to  regret  the  time  and  money  he  had  expended 
on  the  cult  of  fiddles. 

This  fancy  for  fiddles  had  one  disastrous  effect — it  led 
to  a  temporary  disagreement  between  the  clever  son  and 
his  fine  old  father,  the  Squire.  Ipsden  House  is  the  ancient 
manor-house.  The  mansion  built  by  Thomas  Reade  for 
his  daughter  on  her  marriage  with  Mr.  Vachell  was  pulled 
down  in  the  last  century,  at  the  time  when  the  timber  of 
the  park  was  sold  to  pacify  the  mortgagees,  and  the  park 
itself  was  ploughed  up.  The  Squire  of  that  era  converted 
the  old  manor-house  into  a  mansion  by  adding  to  and  alter- 
ing it.  The  whole  is  an  architectural  olla  podrida,  and  to 
render  it  more  incongruous,  as  has  been  narrated,  Charles 
Reade's  mother,  when  she  came  from  Court  to  play  chdte- 
laine  therein,  induced  her  husband  to  paint  the  good  old 
brick  a  garish  white.  Now  the  Squire  was  a  martinet  as 
regards  order.  When,  therefore,  son  Charles  imported 
from  London  or  Paris  violins,  and,  further,  thought  fit  to 
convert  his  bed-chamber  into  a  fiddle  manufactory,  all  Ips- 
den House  knew  that  there  was  the  chance  of  a  storm,  not 
to  say  a  cyclone. 

However,  as  the  Squire  never  dreamed  of  poking  his 
nose  into  every  corner  of  the  house,  this  little  eccentricity 
might  have  been  hidden  from  him,  albeit  the  odors  of 
varnish  are  themselves  rather  telltale.  Unfortunately,  son 
Charles,  the  very  genius  of  domestic  disorder,  was  so  impru- 
dent as  to  try  his  combination  of  amber  on  the  window-sill 
of  his  bedroom,  which  happened  to  face  the  carriage-drive. 

The  effect  can  easily  be  imagined.  Not  only  did  the 
sill  present  a  surface  of  different  shades  of  brown  in  hid- 


148  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

eous  patches,  but  tlie  white  walls  of  the  house  also  were 
streaked  with  these  umber  fluids.  The  Squire  saw  this, 
and  exploded  with  indignation.  What  he  said  has  not 
been  handed  down  to  posterity.  It  must  have  been  suffi- 
ciently disagreeable,  for  his  son  Charles  went  off  to  Lon- 
don in  a  huff,  and  thence  to  Paris.  Moreover,  to  empha- 
size his  displeasure  at  the  paternal  rebuke,  he  did  not  com- 
municate by  letter  or  otherwise  with  Ipsden  House  for 
more  than  six  months. 

His  father  bore  this  philosophically  ;  not  so  his  fond 
mother,  who  fretted  and  fumed  and  was  quite  half  in- 
clined to  quarrel  with  her  husband.  However,  at  last  filial 
affection  reasserted  its  sway.  A  letter  arrived,  and  was 
responded  to  by  an  urgent  request  that  he  would  reappear 
as  though  nothing  had  happened.  This  he  did,  and  so  the 
ugly  episode  ended. 

That  his  penchant  for  violins,  which  at  this  period  of  his 
life  amounted  to  an  overpowering  passion,  was  a  serious 
matter  may  be  inferred  from  the  subjoined.  One  smiles 
to  view  him  in  the  light  of  a  tradesman — a  part  he  of  all 
men  was  least  qualified  to  play.  Sufiice  it  that  he  left  be- 
hind no  ledger,  no  balance-sheet,  no  record  of  transactions 
— for  the  simple  reason  that  he  kept  none. 

The  following  Petition  to  the  Lords  of  the  Treasury  is 
headed,  in  his  MSS., 

"how   CHARLES    READE    WROTE    BEFORE    HE    WAS    A 
WRITER." 

His  literary  evolution,  we  perceive  from  internal  evi- 
dence, was  now  virtually  complete.  The  nine  years  inter- 
vening between  1839  and  1848  had  made  the  mere  scrib- 
bler a  master  of  English.  He  takes  up  the  cudgels  in  self- 
defence  with  characteristic  vigor,  and  the  narrative  of  fact 


Cremonaphilism.  149 

needs  no  comment.     It  tells  its  own  story,  as  Charles 
Reade  alone  could  tell  it : 


"  I  import  old  Italian  and  German  Violins  as  Merchandise,  paying  the 
Queen's  dues,  although  the  profits  of  this  trade  are  so  precarious  that  I 
am  the  only  importing  Merchant  in  England.  I  have  of  late  encountered 
in  the  Custom-IIouse  a  spirit  of  extortion  which  many  candid  persons 
think  misapplied  to  articles  of  vertu  having  a  mere  speculative  value. 
For  some  time  I  have  seen  that  I  should  have  to  Petition  your  Lordships 
for  the  protection  of  my  oppressed  trade.  The  case  that  at  last  brings 
me  before  you  is  this. 

"  About  three  months  ago,  I  being  occupied  in  London,  there  arrived 
for  me  at  Southampton  a  case  containing  a  Violoncello  and  the  carcasses 
of  some  twenty  old  violins.  My  Southampton  Agent  wrote  to  me  for  a 
valuation.  He  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  send  me  the  number  of  the 
Articles,  nor  had  I  an  invoice  or  inventory.  I  sent  down  a  valuation  £50. 
If  I  had  seen  the  Goods  landed  myself  I  should  have  valued  them  about 
£80.  I  value  upon  a  system,  viz.,  about  £4  a-piece  for  the  carcasses  of 
these  third  and  fourth  rate  Italian  violins.  They  are  worth  no  more,  be- 
cause it  costs  £2  of  EngUsh  work  and  of  materials  that  have  paid  duty  in 
other  hands  to  make  one  of  these  carcasses  into  a  playable,  salable  in- 
strument. 

"  A  London  OflScer  went  down  to  see  the  goods.  This  man  is  a  super- 
ficial Smatterer  upon  a  deep  and  difficult  subject.  He  is  in  that  state  of 
quarter  knowledge  in  which  men  are  sure  to  fall  into  more  dangerous  er- 
rors than  when  they  know  nothing  at  all. 

"  He  began  {on  dit)  by  telling  the  Southampton  Officers  that  I  had 
valued  my  goods  at  one  sixth  of  their  just  value.  He  next  observed  that 
he  would  give  £200  for  them  himself :  here  was  already  a  fluctuation  of 
thirty-three  and  one-third  per  cent,  in  this  loose-tongued  valuation. 

"  The  next  oscillation,  as  chance  would  have  it,  was  £250.  On  this  it 
appears  my  Goods  were  stopped. 

"  Informed  by  my  Agent  that  I  was  said  to  have  undervalued  to  so 
fraudulent  an  extent,  I  was  astounded.  In  order  to  get  to  some  under- 
standing of  what  they  were  saying,  I  sent  down  Mr.  John  Lott,  an  intelli- 
gent workman,  to  examine  the  case.  He  left  me  expecting  to  find  a  Bass 
that  has  paid  duty  before,  and  some  fifteen  or  sixteen  fresh  Violins.  IIo 
found  instead  the  said  Bass  and  some  twenty-two  Violins  and  tenors ;  but 


150  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

amongst  the  latter  he  recognized  one  or  two  that,  like  the  Bass,  had  been 

in  the  Country  before,  and  paid  duty  at  the  same  port. 

"  I  petitioned  the  Honorable  Board  of  Commissioners,  as  is  usual,  and 
this  was  the  line  of  my  Petition. 

"  I  frankly  admitted  the  Goods  were  undervalued  according  to  my  own 
system  of  valuation,  through  an  error  that  merely  respected  the  number 
of  articles ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  I  afiirmcd  that  the  London  Officer's 
valuation  was  extravagantly  false,  and  of  this  I  besought  their  Honors  to 
admit  sound  evidence,  viz.,  the  judgment  of  the  only  competent  persons  in 
the  Kingdom — experienced  London  Dealers. 

"And  I  petitioned  to  be  allowed  to  amend  my  valuation,  presuming  that 
competent  evidence  should  remove  that  impression  of  excessive  under- 
valuation which  hitherto  rested  on  one  incompetent  witness. 

"  The  Board's  reply  was, '  the  Goods  to  be  dealt  with.'  But  it  was  my 
fortune  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  Document  by  which  I  learned  the  basis  of 
their  Honors'  decision  was  actually  the  London  Officer's  Estimate,  £250, 
accepted  in  full  with  all  the  respect  due  to  a  competent  connoisseur.  My 
way  of  arguing  is  to  begin  with  the  points  of  Agreement.  I  agree  with 
the  Honorable  Board  that  if  £250  is  the  true  value  of  the  Violin  car- 
casses detained  at  Southampton,  there  is  no  room  for  my  explanation  on 
the  ground  of  error,  the  difference  between  £50  and  £250  is  too  great. 

"  On  the  other  hand,  if  I  should  prove  £250  to  be  as  wide  of  the  mark 
one  way  as  £50  is  the  other,  and  without  the  same  excuse,  I  have  a  right 
to  presume,  on  the  principle,  '  Subtatd  causa  tollHur  effcdiis,^  that  the 
Commissioners  would  feel  disposed,  did  it  rest  with  them,  to  resign  the  un- 
usual course  into  which  they  have  been  led  by  a  natural  error.  I  have  not 
lost  my  confidence  in  that  Honorable  Board's  justice  when  properly  in- 
formed ;  but  something  more  than  they  can  tell  me  it  is  necessary  for  me 
to  learn. 

"  It  is  not  only  the  fate  of  a  single  consignment,  but  of  an  entire  though 
small  branch  of  commerce  that  now  depends  upon  your  Lordships. 

"To  this  innocent  little  commerce,  profitable  in  a  high  proportion  to  the 
Revenue,  and  what  is  singular  in  an  import  trade,  tJie  only  stay  at  the  same 
time  of  the  English  Workman,  terms  are  now  offered  that  evade  by  a  trick 
the  limits  set  by  the  tariff  statute.  They  are  terms  under  which  the  im- 
port trade  cannot  maintain  any  existence  at  all ;  this  is  my  best  excuse 
for  the  tedious  length  at  which  I  am  compelled  by  the  difficulties  of  my 
subject  to  address  your  Lordships. 

"  The  valuation  (£250)  I  attack  rests  upon  nothing  but  the  dictum  of 


Cremonaphilism.  151 

one  solitary  individual,  an  employ^  in  the  Custom-House,  supposed  by  the 
Commissioners  to  have  thoroughly  mastered  in  his  moments  of  leisure  a 
subject  twice  as  deep,  delusive,  and  difficult  as  that  of  ancient  paintings, 
and  six  times  as  delusive  as  any  third  business  that  exercises  the  critical 
powers  of  man. 

"  My  Lords,  this  is  so  far  from  being  true  that  it  is  impossible ;  it  is  an 
impossibility  well  known  to  every  Gentleman  and  Tradesman  that  knows 
anything  about  the  matter. 

"  There  is  no  ploughboy  in  this  nation  who  can  square  the  circle  when 
he  has  unharnessed  his  team,  and  there  is  no  amateur  of  violins  who  can 
set  the  just  value  upon  the  peculiar  varieties  in  one  of  ray  consignments. 

"  The  Rational  Amateur  who  has  bought  true  violins  at  authentic  sources 
knows  something ;  knowing  something,  he  knows  his  incapacity  to  tell  the 
makes  and  values  of  third  and  fourth  rate  specimens.  It  is  only  the  mere 
ignorant  dreamer  of  the  class  who  has  not  arrived  to  know  even  his  own 
ignorance. 

"  I  would  gladly  evade  the  almost  impossible  task  of  trying  to  give  your 
Lordships  any  idea  of  the  depth,  variety,  and  difficulty  of  this  kind  of  vertu. 

"  I  fear  I  shall  be  very  tiresome ;  I  entreat  your  Lordships'  patience 
whilst  I  attempt  to  explain  the  misty  principles  that  govern  the  high  value 
of  things  worth  in  reality  next  to  nothing. 

"Since  the  year  1814,  when  men  first  arose  that  studied  the  principles 
on  which  a  violin  should  be  constructed  to  sound  well,  the  reputation  of 
old  fiddles  for  tone  has  been  justly  shaken,  and  is  now  known  by  two  thirds 
of  the  world  to  be  no  longer  sound,  although  it  was  sound  between  the 
j-ears  1750  and  1814;  for  during  that  interval  no  Fiddle  Maker  existed  in 
Europe  capable  of  constructing  a  violin.  At  present  there  are  more 
scientific  and  intelligent  Fiddle  Makers  than  ever  existed  at  Cremona. 

"  Still,  all  the  intelligence  of  the  present  day  has  failed  to  discover  one 
secret  possessed  by  Italy  and  Germany  up  to  1750,  and  lost  to  the  whole 
world  about  that  time,  viz.,  the  secret  of  fusing  amber  and  making  a  var- 
nish of  oil,  said  amber,  and  soluble  gums,  red,  brown,  or  yellow,  but  abso- 
lutely transparent.  This  varnish,  pretty  in  itself,  and  prettier  in  an  old 
violin,  because  the  wear  and  use  of  a  century  gives  it  light  and  shade  and 
picturesque  forms,  constitutes  the  only  real  reason  why  from  £6  to  £400 
is  given  for  musical  instruments  that  in  beauty  of  wood  and  in  sound  can 
always  be  matched  for  thirty  shillings  from  the  immense  mass  of  new 
violins  open  to  the  public. 

"  If  old  violins  have  any  fixed  merit  it  is  their  appearance.    We  arc,  in 


153  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

fact,  ogrccd  that,  in  a  word,  it  is  their  wood  which  seta  off  their  varnish, 
and  their  varnish  which  sets  off  their  wood.  But  wliere  the  amateur  is  of 
necessity  thrown  out  is  here — ho  is  not  in  a  position  to  estimate  the  value 
of  names — what  he  is  led  to  suppose  a  fixed  merit  can  only  be  bought  and 
sold  as  such  under  the  domineering  influence  of  names. 

"  Merit  never  comes  to  bear  until  first  filtered  through  the  consideration 
of  name.  If  then  a  Man  looks  at  twenty  old  fiddles,  the  merits  of  which 
he  can  see,  but  does  not  know  who  made  each  and  how  that  Maker  ranks 
in  the  Market — where  is  he  ?  and  what  is  he  ?  A  sailor  on  the  wide  Padfic 
without  a  compass  or  a  star  is  not  more  the  sport  of  water  and  wind  than 
such  a  man  as  this  is  of  flighty  dreams  and  of  brute  chance. 

"  Your  Lordships  may  depend  on  the  following  selection  out  of  a  thou- 
sand parallel  facts : 

"  No.  1.  A  Violin  by  Joseph  Guarncrius  of  Cremona  with  plain  wood  and 
pale  varnish,  worth  therefore  only  £70. 

"  No.  2.  A  Violin  by  Joseph  Guamerius,  with  handsome  wood  and  red 
varnish,  worth  therefore  £200. 

"  No.  3.  Violin,  Joseph  Guamerius,  fine  wood,  red  varnish,  and  without 
a  crack,  £300. 

"  No.  4.  Violin,  Carlo  Bergonzi  of  Cremona,  finer  wood  and  varnish  than 
No.  2,  worth  £40. 

"  No.  6.  Carolus  Ferdinandus  Landolpis  of  Milan,  same  wood  and  varnish 
as  No.  4,  worth  £7. 

"  No.  6.  Violin,  Dominica  Montagnano  of  Venice,  worth  £3. 

"  No.  7.  Violin,  Dominica  Montagnano,  finer  wood  and  varnish  than  No. 
8,  worth  £8. 

"  No.  8.  An  ugly  broken-down  fiddle,  Amatus  of  Cremona,  £26. 

"  No.  9.  A  fine  specimen.     Ditto.     £40. 

"  No.  10.  A  finer  still  by  his  pupil,  Francesco  Rugger,  £14. 

"  No.  11.  A  finer  still,  Giudantus  of  Florence,  £12. 

"No.  12.  A  finer  still, Sanctus  Serafin  of  Venice,  £10. 

"No.  13.  An  equally  fine,  Gatenari  of  Florence,  £8. 

"No.  14.  A  good-looking  violin,  Grancina  of  Milan,  £6. 

"No.  14.  A  better  Levazza,  Milan,  £4. 

"No.  15.  Carlo  Bergonzi,  average,  £15. 

"No.  16.  Matteo  Gioffriller  of  Venice,  twice  as  fine,  and  not  distinguish- 
able by  an  Amateur  from  the  same  make,  worth  £5. 

"  No.  17.  The  entire  School  of  Venice,  equal  in  merit  to  that  of  Cremona, 
and  possessed  of  quite  as  fine  &  varnish,  but  worth  in  the  market  800  per 
cent.  less. 

"  I  put  it  to  yourselves,  my  Lords,  whether  anything  short  of  real,  tangi- 


Cremonaphilisni.  153 

ble,  critical  knowledge  can  guide  a  valuer  through  a  labyrinth  of  which 
this  is  only  the  first  turn. 

"Ask  an  Amateur  how  many  names  he  knows,  and  he  will  quote  you 
about  eight  names ;  ask  him  to  write  down  upon  paper  the  nice  little  dis- 
tinctions and  details  of  work  by  which  he  is  to  know  even  these  few  at 
sight,  he  cannot  do  it :  even  this  first  page  of  a  profound  study  is  beyond 
him.  Why  cannot  he  write  them  down  on  paper  ?  because  he  has  not 
really  got  tlicm  in  his  eye  and  his  brain  ready  for  use. 

"  Now  what  will  your  Lordships  think  when  I  tell  you  that,  instead  of 
eight  or  ten,  one  hundred  and  eighty  Makers  are  known  to  have  worked  in 
Italy  alone,  and  to  have  used  that  amber  varnish  which,  seen  by  a  dreamer, 
is  straightway  taken  by  him  for  a  proof  of  one  of  those  eight  or  ten  valur 
able  varieties.  Of  these  one  hundred  and  eighty  more  than  one  half  are 
beneath  the  real  connoisseur's  notice ;  but  he  knows  more  than  sixty,  fa- 
miliarly knows  them  at  sight,  knows  their  work,  their  style,  and  their  value, 
and  he  knows  them  too  positively  to  confound  the  other  one  hundred  and 
twenty  with  them. 

"  But  this  knowledge  requires  a  rare  combination  of  talent  and  oppor- 
tunity. It  demands  a  fine  Eye,  a  strong  memory,  a  clear  head,  the  con- 
stant practice  of  examining  the  insidcs  as  well  as  outsides  of  hundreds  of 
Specimens,  and,  above  all,  to  have  invested  thousands  of  pounds  in  the 
trade ;  for  no  judgment  can  be  formed  except  by  risking  loss  as  well  as 
gain  upon  it  hundreds  of  times. 

"  This  is  why  none  but  an  experienced  Dealer  ever  was  a  real  Connoisseur, 
nor  ever  will  be  as  long  as  this  world  shall  last. 

"  Now  without  the  above  advantages  any  person  of  mere  general  intelli- 
gence and  taste  for  old  violins  would  be  sure  to  overvalue  my  consign- 
ments for  this  plain  reason — I  am  a  great  connoisseur,  and  when  I  buy 
viohns  of  low  name  and  value  do  buy  what  ? — not  poor  specimens  of  them, 
but  of  course  the  finest  specimens  of  them,  which  are  little  dearer  than  the 
poorer  ones.  Now  the  chefs-d'oeuvre  of  a  £4  maker  are  really  finer,  and 
often  much  finer,  than  the  average  of  a  £40  Maker,  or  even  of  an  £100 
Maker. 

"  The  Amateur  has  no  idea  of  this,  so  when  he  sees  a  fine  thing,  he 
argues  backwards  that  it  must  be  by  a  valued  Maker.  The  tendency  of 
this  error  is  clear :  the  value  of  it  is  far  beyond  calculation.  Once  begin 
ascribing  my  goods  to  the  narrow  list  of  names  known  even  by  rote  in  the 
City,  or  valuing  them  as  they  would  sell  if  they  could  but  come  under  that 
narrow  list  of  names,  and  a  thousand  per  cent,  orer-valuation  is  an  easy 

7* 


154  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

natural  result    That  result,  my  Lords,  has  once  actually  occurred  to  mo 
and  from  the  same  quarter. 

"  There  are  three  classes  of  persons  in  and  about  this  class  of  vertu : 
"  1.  The  connoisseur,  who  must  have  been  many  years  a  practised  dealer. 
"  2.  The  respectable  intelligent  Amateur,  who  has  bought  at  their  true 
prices  true  violins  of  responsible  Dealers  or  under  judgment  of  such. 

"  3.  The  Dreamer,  who  is  always  on  the  lookout  for  chances  that  imply 
a  contradiction  in  terms,  such  as  'to  pick  up'  (that  is  his  phrase)  a  highly 
valuable  fiddle  for  a  little  money. 

"  He  is  capable  of  abusing  understanding  to  such  an  extent  as  this. 
"  lie  knows  that  certain  old  violins  fetch  high  prices  only  because  they 
are  excessively  rare,  that  if  not  excessively  rare  they  could  not  be  so  valu- 
able, that  could  they  by  a  miracle  cease  to  be  excessively  rare  they  must 
then  cease  to  be  valuable,  and  yet  he  no  sooner  sees  a  flock  of  gray  geese 
come  over  the  water  than  he  says,  '  Behold  a  flock  of  black  swans,'  and 
he  winds  up  a  pretty  piece  of  Idiocy  by  valuing  the  varieties  that  it  seems 
have  become  as  common  as  dirt  to  please  him  at  the  value  they  had  be- 
fore they  became  common. 

"  It  is  his  ground  of  faith  that  every  good-looking  old  violin  which 
comes  here  is  Cremonese,  and  that  every  Cremonese  is  highly  valuable,  and 
can  find  a  purchaser  at  once,  like  silks  or  brandy. 

"  Estimate  the  Ilaze  in  which  these  babblers  are  lost  before  they  take 
their  first  step. 

"  Of  Foreign  Fiddles  carrying  an  appearance  of  value  to  these  Smatter- 
ers,  thirty  out  of  forty  are  not  Italian  even,  but  French  and  German ;  out 
of  the  Italian  ones,  thirty-six  out  of  forty  are  not  Cremonese,  but  made  at 
Parma,  Mantua,  Padua,  Verona,  Turin,  Livomo,  Florence,  Naples,  Rome, 
Venice,  Milan,  and  other  Italian  towns,  and  in  towns  and  villages  of  the 
Tyrol ;  of  the  Cremonese,  which  alone  carry  high  price,  some  are  by  un- 
prized makers  and  have  little  value.  Two  makers  alone  could  make  sure, 
upon  anything  like  a  forced  sale,  of  fetching  more  than  £15,  and  these,  in 
fact,  are  the  only  true  property  or  secure  investment.  Need  I  add  that  my 
case  contains  no  single  specimen  of  the  rarer  class. 

"  I  have  to  complain  of  a  valuation  that  proceeds  on  three  broad  and 
grave  errors : 

"  1.  An  error  critical,  immense  exaggeration  of  the  importance  of  the 
specimens. 

"  2.  A  suppression  or  omission  of  a  heavy  drawback  on  the  value  of 
my  goods,  under  the  only  title  that  biings  them  beneath  the  Tariff  at  alL 


Cremonaphilism.  155 

"You  are  to  understand  that  ray  carcasses  and  scrolls  of  violins  are 
caught  hold  of  by  the  Customs  as  Musical  Instruments  of  Foreign  manu- 
facture. This  is  not  strictly  true.  They  are,  in  point  of  fact,  Foreign 
articles  of  vertu,  and  Foreign  materials  for  English  Manufacture  of  Musi- 
cal Instruments. 

"Before  I  can  make  these  carcasses  into  Musical  Instruments  what 
must  I  do  ?  Why,  my  Lords,  I  must  go  to  a  French  importing  House,  and 
buy  the  following  materials  and  accessories  that  have  already  accounted 
with  the  Customs  in  their  hands,  viz. : 

20  Necks  made  of  Harewood,  4s.  a-piece. 

80  Ebony  pegs. 

20  Ebony  Finger-boards. 

20     do     Tail- pieces. 

20  Bridges. 

80  Strings. 

This  done,  I  must  engage  with  an  English  Workman  to  take  off  tlie  bellies 
of  every  carcass  except  the  Bass ;  to  cut  out  the  old  Bass  Bars  which  will 
not  support  the  modern  system  of  tuning  a  violin  ;  to  shape  and  glue  new 
bass  bars ;  to  open  and  clean  and  glue  all  the  cracks  in  those  twenty  car- 
casses and  secure  them  with  pieces ;  to  shape  and  fit  the  necks  to  the 
scrolls  and  to  the  carcasses ;  to  shape  and  fit  the  finger-boards  to  the  necks; 
to  cut  and  fit  the  bridges  to  each  Instrument  respectively ;  to  strengthen 
the  bellies  of  one  half  of  them  inside  with  pieces,  carefully  and  laborious- 
ly ;  to  string  them  up. 

"  To  recut  a  Maggini  tenor,  not  salable  in  England  unless  recut — this 
alone  is  a  £5  job. 

"  This  drawback,  my  Lords,  is  at  least  £45 ;  most  workmen  would  ex- 
pect £60  for  it.  Now  this  drawback  has  not  been  fairly  put  before  the 
Honorable  Commissioners  by  the  Pseudo- Valuer,  and  it  is  a  very  grave  sup- 
pression ;  one  effect  of  it  is  just  this :  A  piece  of  stuff  is  valued  by  antici- 
pation as  high  as  all  the  garments  to  be  made  here  out  of  that  stuff  and 
supplied  with  linings  and  accessories.  The  other  effect  of  it  will  be 
treated  elsewhere.  And  here  I  throw  myself  with  confidence  upon  the 
honor  of  the  Commissioners  of  the  Customs.  Let  them  say,  '  Was  this 
drawback  placed  before  them  m  figures  P  If  not,  the  present  valuation  is 
rotten  for  want  of  detail  on  one  whole  side. 

"  But  I  would  fain  go  farther,  and  ask  even  another  question,  and  I 
throw  myself  upon  the  honor  of  the  Board,  and  in  particular  Sir  Thomas 


156  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

Fremantle  for  the  answer.  Was  it  impressed  upon  the  Board  that  my 
goods  are  violins,  etc.,  tliat  could  be  sold  at  all  to  Violin  Players  upon  being 
cleared,  or  was  the  impression  left  that  they  are  mere  carcasses,  broken 
carcasses,  which  could  only  be  sold  to  the  speculating  Dealer  ? 

"  If  the  former  impression  has  been  left  with  the  Board,  their  Judgment 
has  been  fraudulently  obtained ;  if  the  latter,  we  come  by  another  road  to 
what  I  said  three  months  ago,  and  say  now,  that  the  Dealers  and  Work- 
men are  the  only  men  who  can  value  these  battered  carcasses. 

"  Oh !  my  Lords,  if  you  or  the  Commissioners  would  only  condescend  to 
look  at  the  things,  you  or  they  would  see  how  shamefully  they  have  been 
imposed  upon  in  this  respect  Just  see  how  the  Commissioners  have 
backed  and  filled  before  they  could  drift  into  their  false  valuation.  They 
take  the  population  of  England  at  1 5,000,000.  This  population  has  at  its  left 
extremity  14,999,975  persons  who  would  say,  and  with  reason,  on  looking 
at  my  goods, '  Rubbish,  not  worth  £10 ;'  at  its  right  a  few  practical  judges 
capable  of  saying  for  what  (although  really  worth  nothing)  they  would 
sell  through  the  caprice  of  a  small  clique.  The  Commissioners  with  their' 
left  hand  set  aside  the  14,999,975,  including  themselves,  on  the  plea  of 
ignorance ;  then,  instead  of  carrying  out  their  idea,  they  wheel  about,  and 
with  the  right  hand  set  aside  all  who  have  real  competent  knowledge,  and 
80  we  get  rid  with  one  gesture  of  Common-sense,  with  a  reverse  gesture 
we  lose  specific  knowledge  and  arrive  at  a  fool's  paradise. 

"  I  come  to  Error  3.  This  is  an  error  that  arises  out  of  not  knowing  the 
violin  trade — it  is  an  important  error,  because 

'  The  value  of  a  thing 
Is  never  more  than  it  will  bring.' 

The  error  principally  consists  in  the  use  of  false  analogies  to  supply  the 
want  of  specific  knowledge.  There  is  only  one  other  trade  from  which 
any  light  can  be  thrown  upon  the  old  violin  trade,  and  that  is  the  Picture 
Trade.  By  keeping  this  sister  trade  out  of  sight,  and  by  drawing  one's 
notions,  as  a  Custom-House  Officer  naturally  would,  from  silks,  linens, 
watches,  cotton,  one  is  sure  to  go  sixty  or  seventy  per  cent,  out  of  the  true 
reckoning.  The  Buyers  of  other  Merchandise  are  so  numerous  that  one 
can  always  be  found  if  the  Proprietor  will  set  a  moderate  price.  But  here 
it  is  the  reverse.  The  public  buyers  are  so  few  that  it  is  impossible  to 
secure  at  any  given  period  the  profitable  sale  of  a  single  violin,  much  less 
twenty.  The  very  idea  of  selling  twenty  fiddles  at  the  same  time,  without 
losing  money  by  them,  could  never  have  entered  the  heads  of  one  who 


Cremonaj^hilism.  167 

knows  this  miserable  trade.  The  ■whole  annual  trade  of  London  in  old 
Italian  violins  hardly  amounts  to  twenty  bondjide  sales ;  most  of  the  sales 
beutraUze  one  another,  No.  1  coming  back  to  the  Dealer  in  part  exchanged 
for  No.  2,  and  No.  2  for  No.  3. 

"Upon  anything  like  a  forced  sale  —  such  as  with  satins,  silks,  etc., 
might  only  entail  a  loss  of  fifteen  or  twenty  per  cent. — the  loss  upon  vio- 
lins would  be  three  or  four  hundred  per  cent,  in  many  cases,  incalculable 
in  others,  ruinous  in  all. 

'  "  Any  one  who  knows  the  trade  knows  there  is  but  one  way  of  selling 
violins  without  being  ruined  by  them,  and  that  is  to  deposit  them  in  shopSj 
and  wait  quietly  one,  two,  three,  four,  six,  fifteen,  twenty  years,  until  a 
customer's  caprice  happens  to  give  an  opportunity  of  selling  to  advan- 
tage. It  is  under  the  title  of  a  Valuer  that  a  man  exists  who  leaves  the 
business  or  heaviness  of  return  out  of  his  calculation  of  average  value. 

"  It  seems  odd  that  two  Men  should  differ  as  to  the  meaning  of  so  sim- 
ple a  phrase  as  this — for  every  £100,  £10  Tariff.  Yet  we  do.  The  Pseudo- 
Valuer  says  the  Legislature  demands  of  me  £10  on  the  1st  of  August^ 
1848,  for  every  £100  I  shall  receive  upon  the  1st  of  August,  1851.  I  sajf 
No,  that  is  not  £10  in  a  given  £100,  but  £10  out  of  a  £100  mutilated  by 
the  loss  of  three  years'  interest  and  compound  interest ;  and  it  was  in- 
tended by  the  Legislature  that  for  every  £10  I  pay  the  Customs  on  the 
1st  of  August  I  should  be  able  to  get  £100  before  the  end  of  the  month, 
or  if  I  must  wait  for  three  years  on  the  average,  should  in  that  case  get 
more  than  £100,  and  considerably  more. 

"  In  this  paper,  my  Lords,  it  is  not  my  intention  to  ask  of  your  Lord- 
ships any  other  favor  than  Justice,  or  rather  a  chance  of  Justice.  There 
is  nothing  against  me,  my  consignment  of  Goods,  or  the  future  existenca 
of  my  trade,  but  a  false  statement  made  by  an  ignorant  Monomaniac,  and 
colored  partly  to  his  wishes  and  partly  by  the  suggestions  of  private  specu- 
lation. I  ask  to  be  permitted  to  bring  that  statement  to  some  satisfactory 
test ;  it  is  not  for  me  to  decide  the  manner,  but  I  hope  it  will  be  the  exam- 
ination upon  oath  of  persons  in  the  trade.  Do  not  think  that  I  am  even 
then  in  a  better  position  than  I  deserve.  There  is  no  person  in  the  trade 
•whose  interest  is  identical  with  mine ;  there  are  one  or  two  who  would  do 
me  an  injury  if  they  could — there  is  one  who  at  this  moment  is  amusing 
himself  with  writing  anonymous  letters,  filled  with  tpalicious  falsehoods 
against  me.  Do  you  think,  my  Lords,  I  would  not  rather  fall  into  the 
hands  of  even  this  fellow  than  of  a  mad  Babbler  about  this  kind  of  trade? 
Certainly ;  because  a  limit  can  be  placed  to  such  a  man  by  examination 


168  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

on  Oath ;  but  ignorance  cannot  be  modified.    Malice  is  a  blaclcguard,  but 
Ignorance  is  a  Wild  Beast. 

"  The  mighty  favor  I  beg,  my  Lords,  is,  that  my  goods  may  be  valued 
by  a  body  of  Men  who  are  my  rivals,  or  would  be  if  they  could ;  and  I  beg 
this  favor,  my  Lords,  on  the  high  grounds  of  truth  and  justice. 

"  If  an  appeal  to  Caesar  could  make  all  proceedings  pause  in  the  most 
distant  Roman  province,  I  hope  an  appeal  to  Truth  and  Justice  cannot 
fail  to  create  a  pause,  and  consideration  here  in  England,  especially  when 
that  appeal  comes  direct  to  the  rulers  of  the  people.  I  appeal  by  name  to 
the  Right  Honorable  Lord  John  Russell  to  give  Truth  and  Justice  a  chance 
by  giving  them  a  bare  hearing — that  hearing  which  is  their  right  and  mine 
has  been  up  to  this  moment  refused  to  them  and  nic. 

"  I,  a  Merchant,  though  a  small  one,  appeal  to  Lord  John  Russell  by 
name  as  a  great  patron  of  commerce. 

"  That  great  Gentleman  is  also  appealed  to  by  a  small  and  unfortunate 
gentleman,  who  declares  upon  his  sacred  honor  that  the  proceedings  about 
to  take  place  are  unjust,  ridiculous  upon  all  grounds  of  Public  Government, 
originating  in  a  blind  greediness,  that,  carried  out,  would  destroy  the  Rev- 
enue by  crushing  trade,  and  approved  by  Commissioners  upon  the  crass 
ipse  dixit  of  an  uninformed,  isolated,  unconscientious  Man,  who  has  not  been 
examined  on  Oath,  or  cross-examined ;  whose  previous  false,  insane,  extrav- 
agant, and  fraudulent  valuations  of  similar  property  are  known  to  everybody 
but  to  the  Commissioners,  and  shall  be  proved  and  attested  by  the  Oaths  of 
numerous  disinterested  persons  whenever  your  Lordships  or  the  Board  of 
Commissioners  are  disposed  to  know  the  truth,  instead  of  guessing  at  a 
distance  through  a  haze  of  illusory  circumstances  and  babbling  dreams. 

"  And  so,  my  Lords,  I  come  to  you  and  humbly  beg  for  that  which  in 
most  situations  an  Englishman  can  demand,  Inquiry.  Without  Inquiry, 
Justice  has  not  the  shadow  of  the  Ghost  of  a  chance,  especially  in  my 
case;  by  Inquiry  I  mean  Examination  on  Oath  and  Cross-examination. 

"  My  Lords,  my  fate  is  in  your  hands,  and  as  God  is  my  Judge,  my  com- 
merce lives  or  perishes  at  a  word  from  your  lips. 

"  I  am  the  last  Importer  left— I  can  maintain  my  ground  under  the  ten 
per  cent.  duty.  No  other  man  in  England  can :  the  best  proof  is,  no  other 
man  attempts  it  as  a  Merchant.  But  once  begin  to  tamper  with  that  ten 
per  cent,  duty  by  over-valuation,  once  substitute  by  sleight-of-hand  twenty- 
seven  per  cent.,  which  in  its  honest  English  is  what  the  Custom-House 
proposes  to  me  in  Thieves'  Latin,  and  your  Lordships,  in  point  of  fact, 
prohibit  a  patriotic  Commerce. 


Vremonaphilism.  169 

"  You,  my  Lords,  would  not  do  such  a  thing ;  but  in  order  not  to  do  it 
you  must  actually  interfere  and  prevent  the  Custom-IIouse  from  doing  it. 

"  The  matter  is  now  before  you,  my  Lords,  and  from  this  hour  whatever 
is  done,  is  done  not  by  Subordinates,  but  by  the  Government,  on  the  well- 
known  principles  of  Iler  Majesty's  present  Government. 

"  I  throw_  myself  now,  and  I  shall  again  throw  myself  on  them  in  my 
document  No.  2,  in  the  course  of  which  I  shall  show  you  why  my  com- 
merce— unlike  every  other  in  the  World — contains  in  itself  no  principle  of 
protection  against  the  private  fraudulent  speculations  of  Custom -House 
Officers.  At  present  I  conclude  by  earnestly  imploring  the  bare  prelim- 
inary justice  of  a  bond  fide  inquiry  into  the  marketable  value  of  a  partic- 
ular Consignment,  and  the  state  and  capabilities  of  the  trade. 

"And  I  hereby  petition  your  Lordships  to  forbid  the  sale  by  Custom- 
House  Auction  of  my  Goods  until  the  false  evidence  at  present  before  the 
Commissioners  has  been  brought  to  the  touchstone  of  Cross-examination, 
and  compared  with  a  mass  of  Evidence  upon  Oath,  by  which  I  am  pre- 
pared to  compute  it." 


It  may  seem  sti'ange  that  a  Fellow  of  Magdalen,  not 
without  ambition  or  industry,  and  gifted  by  nature  with 
commanding  talent,  should  have  embraced  the  law  as  a 
profession  merely  to  abandon  it,  Charles  Reade,  in  his 
undergraduate  days,  as  his  friend  Canon  Bernard  Smith 
testifies,  always  imagined  himself  a  limb  of  the  law,  and 
there  is  one  pointed  reference  to  his  profession  in  his  letter 
to  his  father.  Nevertheless,  he  resigned  himself  content- 
edly to  a  dolce  far  niente  style  of  existence,  though  never 
even  in  his  idlest  moments  did  he  cease  to  be  a  student. 
In  his  papers  we  discover  a  rather  embittered  confession 
of  what  lie  terms  baldly  a  wasted  youth  ;  and  it  is  almost 
certain  that  when  he  selected  the  title,  "  It  is  Never  too 
Late  to  Mend  "  for  the  book  he  then  considered  his  chef- 
cPoeuvre,  it  was  his  own  career  that  suggested  the  well-worn 
proverb.  "  I  made  notes,"  he  writes  in  a  singular  vein  of 
self-reproach,  "  but  I  never  wrote  a  book  for  the  public  till 


160  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

I  MTas  thirty-five.     Then,  at  an  age  when  most  men's  hab- 
its are  fixed,  I  began  my  real  life." 

From  this  we  glean  that  he  did  not  actually  put  pen  to 
paper  seriously  before  1850,  in  which  and  the  succeeding 
year  he  labored  hard  to  make  up  for  lost  ground.  "  I 
wrote,"  he  says,  "first  for  the  stage — about  thirteen  dramas 
which  nobody  would  play." 

Before  we  approach  what  we  will  term,  in  his  own 
phraseology,  his  real  life,  we  will  glance  once  more  at  his 
butterfly  existence. 

It  will  not  unnaturally  occur  to  the  mind  of  the  observ- 
ant that  such  a  man  as  Charles  Reade,  a  handsome  and 
debonnaire  gentleman,  acceptable  in  society,  with  distin- 
guished manners  and  powers  of  conversation  amounting 
almost  to  fascination,  must  have  been  influenced  once,  if 
not  more  than  once,  by  the  fair  sex.  He  preferred  ladies' 
society  to  men's  even  in  his  earliest  days,  and  most  assur- 
edly had  never  any  cause  of  complaint  on  the  score  of  neg- 
lect or  coldness  from  women  both  clever  and  attractive. 
At  home  he  did  not  encounter  a  superabundance  of  society 
of  any  kind.  The  deaths  of  their  three  eldest  sons  and  of 
their  beautiful  and  brilliant  daughter,  Julia,  saddened  the 
Squire  and  his  vivacious  wife,  and  caused  them  to  avoid 
society  so  far  as  their  position  rendered  such  avoidance 
possible.  His  sister  EUinor,  however,  had  her  circle  of 
friends,  who  visited  Ipsden  at  chronic  intervals.  It  would 
be  eiToneous,  therefore,  to  suggest  that  Charles  Reade  kept 
quite  clear  of  the  tender  passion.  But  whatever  he  may 
have  felt  or  wished,  circumstances  had  stamped  him  as  a 
non-marrying  man.  Marriage  would  have  deprived  him 
of  that  small  competence  he  valued  so  dearly — his  fellow- 
ship at  Magdalen.  True,  he  might  have  married  money, 
but  it  may  be  affirmed  safely,  that  had  he  married  at  all. 


Cremonaphilism.  161 

it  would  have  been  from  a  different  and  higher  motive. 
As  a  matter  of  plain  fact,  the  alliance  he  may  secretly 
have  coveted  was,  for  pecuniary  reasons,  an  impossibility. 
He  realized  this,  and  never  permitted  himself  to  drift  into 
a  false  position.  What  might  have  happened  had  he  been 
endowed  with  independence,  it  is  not  quite  difficult  to  sur- 
mise. His  dependence  on  the  college  was  perhaps  his 
misfortune,  since  it  interposed  a  barrier  between  him  and 
the  one  lady  whom  in  the  best  days  of  his  manhood  he 
idealized,  and  never  forgot,  even  in  his  dying  moments. 
It  was,  perhaps,  the  inability  to  marry  in  accordance  with 
his  inclination  that  kept  him  clear  of  all  matrimonial  ideas 
of  any  kind.  Yet  he  was  very  charming,  and,  without 
knowing  it,  became  the  centre  of  any  coterie.  "With  the 
loss  of  his  lively  presence  the  family  circle  soon  gloomed 
over,  and  it  must  be  added  that,  if  a  favorite  with  the 
elders,  he  was  adored  by  his  juniors  of  either  sex.  At 
Ipsden,  in  the  holiday  time,  his  sister  Julia's  only  son  and 
daughter,  and  his  brother  Compton's  eldest  son  and  daugh- 
ter were  regular  visitors,  and  being  much  of  the  same  age, 
formed  a  pleasant  quartette. 

"  Boys,"  said  he,  one  dull  afternoon  to  his  two  nephews, 
"  shall  I  take  you  out  shooting,  or  sing  you  some  songs  ?" 

The  boys  gave  discordant  answers.  "  Shoot,"  cried 
young  Allen  Gardiner,  then  fresh  from  Harrow.  "  Sing," 
pleaded  the  other. 

"There,"  said  Charles  Reade,  with  prophetic  solemnity, 
"  is  an  index  of  the  future  of  both  you  fellows." 

He  was  right.  Young  Allen  becaine  a  roving  mission- 
ary in  South  America,  and  his  other  nephew  joined  the 
choir  of  Magdalen. 

He  seemed,  moreover,  to  enjoy  at  that  time  the  society 
of  these  nephews  and  nieces  ;  indeed,  on  one  occasion  he 


162  Memoir  of  CJiarles  Reade. 

deserted  his  beloved  Paris  to  meet  them,  and  grumbled 
persistently  for  a  week  at  our  English  climate.  Not  that 
he  was  in  the  least  degree  ungracious  to  the  young  people. 
On  the  contrary,  he  brought  down  a  complete  set  of  arch- 
ery for  their  amusement,  sang  them  all  his  songs,  and  in 
the  evening  wrote  comic  verses  to  make  them  laugh.  Of 
his  nieces,  and  especially  of  his  niece  Anna,  afterwards 
Mrs.  R.  A.  J.  Drummond,  he  was  more  than  fond,  a  thor- 
oughly attentive  cavalier.  Looking  back  on  these  halcyon 
days,  his  relatives,  or  rather  those  that  survive,  might  well 
feel  that  his  singular  amiability  and  good-nature  more 
than  atoned  for  the  inaction  he  so  poignantly  regretted ; 
for  after  he  began  to  slave  at  literature,  and  to  hunger  for 
approbation,  he  developed  an  irritability  to  which  pre- 
viously he  had  been  a  stranger.  Success  changed  him — 
certainly  in  respect  of  manner,  sympathy,  and  predilec- 
tion, though  the  alteration  was  mainly  on  the  surface. 
This  was,  perhaps,  inevitable.  Had  he  remained  a  mere 
butterfly  he  would  have  escaped  exertion  and  its  results, 
but  his  life  would  have  been  wholly  ruined.  It  is  a  fact, 
none  the  less,  that  toil  hardens  most  men's  natures,  whereas 
ease  has  the  contrary  effect. 

It  is  remarkable  also  how  rapidly  labor  aged  him.  As 
late  as  1853,  when  he  walked  in  the  solemn  procession  of 
doctors  and  dons  to  the  Sheldonian  theatre  to  witness  the 
installation  of  the  late  Lord  Derby  as  Chancellor  of  the 
University,  the  query  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  "  Who 
can  that  very  juvenile  doctor  be  ?"  and  reached  the  ear  of 
his  fond  sister  Ellinor,  who  was  the  guest  of  the  venerable 
Doctor  Macbi'ide,  at  Magdalen  Hall.  In  1845  he  was  in  the 
very  prime  of  manhood.  Then  it  was  that  at  Liverpool  he 
hit  Alfred  Mynn,  the  Spofforth  of  the  period,  round  the 
field,  and  his  scores  not  seldom  ran  up  three  figures.    His 


Cremonaphilism.  163 

prowess  in  the  art  of  throwing  a  casting-net  was  extraor- 
dinary, and  he  excelled  in  every  manly  sport  he  took  up, 
including  archery,  bowls,  and  skittles.  There  was  a  very 
pretty  skittle-alley  in  the  groom's  yard  of  Magdalen  Col- 
lege, and  another  in  the  Grove;  and  the  college  groom, 
with  his  stable  helpers,  used  to  find  plenty  of  employment 
when  Charles  Reade  happened  to  be  in  residence.  Paris 
could  not  make  a.  petit-maitre  of  such  essentially  virile  ma- 
terial. Town,  with  its  pleasures,  failed  to  render  his  fibre 
effeminate.  He  ate  largely,  drank  very  sparingly  —  for 
the  most  part  cold  water  and  tea — took  a  superabundance 
of  exercise,  and  lived  very  much  the  life  of  Loid  Beacons- 
field's  typical  aristocrat,  who  was  perpetually  in  the  open 
air,  and  never  opened  a  book. 

This  last,  however,  applied  to  him  in  the  comparative 
degree  only,  for  he  read  between  his  amusements,  and  at 
forty  boasted  a  mind  more  largely  stored  with  the  treas- 
ures of  English  literature  than  that  of  any  among  his  aca- 
demical contemporaries.  At  that  period  Oxford  had  gone 
crazed  about  medirevalism  and  black  letter.  Theology 
was  its  one  topic — if  we  except  architecture;  and  students 
who  had  fathomed  the  recondite  mysteries  of  ogees,  awni- 
bries,  corbels,  and  crockets  were  ignorant  of  Massinger,  if 
not  of  Milton.  A  bookworm  like  Mozley  plodded  to  some 
purpose,  for  he  was  not  merely  antiquarian,  but  realistic. 
Yet,  after  all,  where  Mozley  had  one  reader,  Charles  Reade 
could  boast  ten  thousand.  The  one  appealed  to  a  very 
limited  circle,  the  other  to  the  widest  and  most  lasting. 
The  one  taught  more  Magistri,  in  parables,  alias  dramas; 
the  other  by  sermons,  alias  essays.  Nobody  desires  to 
speak  of  Professor  Mozley  otherwise  than  with  the  respect 
his  antlike  industry  and  profound  sincerity  deserves;  but 
when  an  eminent  public  writer  thought  fit  to  quote  Moz- 


164  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

ley  as  an  exemplar  of  all  that  was  admirable  in  Magda- 
len, and  to  fling  a  sneer  at  the  one  Magdalen  Fellow 
of  that  epoch  whose  fame  is  iu  the  least  degree  likely 
to  outlast  this  century,  he  evinced  a  lack  of  apprecia- 
tion which  unfortunately  is  only  too  common  to  academic 
natures. 

It  was  perhaps  inevitable  that  a  virile  specimen  of  man- 
hood enhanced  by  genius  should  be  half  scorned  in  a  place 
where  mental  virility  was  unknown,  and  pedantry  passed 
for  talent.  It  was  inevitable  also  that  such  a  man,  with 
all  the  warmth  of  youth  adhering  to  him,  should  be  idol- 
ized in  the  domestic  circle.  "  We  will  use  our  brains,"  ho 
would  say  after  tea  in  the  lovely  summer  evenings,  love- 
lier nowhere  within  these  four  seas  than  at  glorious  Ips- 
den,  "  we  will  use  our  brains."  And  so  the  whole  family 
clustered  round  him  with  paper  and  pencils,  and  scribbled 
verses  of  all  sorts  in  competition.  Some  few  of  these  po- 
etical essays  were  preserved,  including  those  of  Charles 
Reade;  but,  needless  to  add,  they  are  not  worth  repro- 
duction. 

It  was  characteristic,  moreover,  of  the  man  who  in  after- 
years  was  laughed  at  because  his  plays,  forsooth,  were  al- 
ways "so  very  good!"  i.  c,  based  on  sound  morality,  that 
neither  Oxford,  Paris,  nor  London  could  spoil  his  natural 
and  graceful  simplicity.  At  forty  he  was  quite  half  a 
boy ;  at  forty-five  he  played  at  cricket  with  the  old  zest; 
at  sixty -eight  he  entered  heartily  into  tennis.  His  natural 
spring  was  surprising,  and  enabled  him,  when  in  middle 
age  he  took  up  his  pen  in  right  good  earnest,  to  wield  that 
weapon  as  Mercury  and  not  as  Saturn.  "Pick  yourself 
out,  my  good  chap,"  was  his  advice  to  his  nephew  when 
the  cob  he  was  riding  rolled  in  a  pond,  rider  and  all.  And 
this  advice,  later  on,  he  applied  to  his  own  case,    The 


Cremonaphilism.  165 

time  came  when  labor  was  no  longer  a  matter  of  choice, 
but  of  necessity,  and  he  then  demonstrated  clearly  that 
as  of  yore  he  had  played  so  could  he  work.  His  Pe- 
gasus pitched  him  into  the  mud,  and  his  wit  pulled  hira 
out. 


CHAPTER  XrV. 

PABIS    AND    IPSDEN. 

The  Revolution  of  1848  surprised  Charles  Reade  in 
Paris,  and  the  conduct  of  its  leading  spirits,  whereof  he 
was  an  unwilling  eye-witness,  caused  him,  in  "Christie 
Johnstone,^'  to  style  the  French  Assembly  "  a  den  of  wild 
beasts  fed  on  eau  szicree.^^ 

The  subsequent  horrors  of  the  coup  d^etat  have  almost 
obliterated,  as  in  some  measure  they  eclipsed,  those  of  the 
antecedent  revolution  which  expelled  the  citizen  king, 
who  sought  refuge  on  English  soil  as  Mr.  Smith,  More- 
over, the  special  reporter  was  an  institution  not  then  in- 
vented, and  although  the  Times  gave  graphic  descriptions 
of  the  scenes  at  the  barricades,  the  English  public  were 
informed  of  but  a  tithe  of  what  occurred.  At  the  moment 
Compton  happened  to  have  a  house  at  Hampstead,  and 
thitherward  one  evening,  weary  and  flustered,  his  author 
brother  hurried  to  relieve  the  pent-up  feelings  of  his  rela- 
tives. The  Times  had  narrated  with  fidelity  the  strong 
anti-English  feeling  prevalent  among  the  intoxicated  Re- 
publicans, and  it  is  a  simple  fact  that  a  massacre  of  our 
countrymen  was  considered  imminent.  The  Republic 
wished  to  consecrate  its  birth  by  a  holocaust  of  harmless 
guests,  and  it  is  marvellous  that  this  vile  project  was  not 
carried  into  execution.  We  can  only  compare  the  appre- 
hension of  those  who  then  had  friends  in  Paris  to  that 
evoked  nine  years  later  by  the  tidings  of  the  Indian  Mutiny. 


Paris  and  Ipsden.  167 

"  My  dear  Charles,"  cried  his  brother,  as  he  welcomed 
him  eagerly,  "  you  have  had  a  narrow  escape  of  your 
life!" 

"  I  have,"  replied  Charles,  solemnly;  "  they  put  me  into 
a  damp  bed  at  Boulogne." 

Canon  Bernard  Smith  relates  that  the  one  study  Charles 
Reade  devoted  himself  to  with  passionate  energy  during 
his  undergraduate  career  was  paradox.  That  may  account 
for  this  glib  rejoinder. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  his  life  was  in  danger,  and  from 
something  far  more  dangerous  than  damp.  He  was  lodging 
over  a  barber's  shop  in  close  proximity  to  one  of  the  bar- 
ricades where  the  fighting  was  fiercest,  and  had  the  bar- 
ber dropped  the  faintest  hint  that  an  Englishman  was 
concealed  on  his  premises,  the  wild  beasts  of  the  pave- 
ment, with  the  blood -instinct  hot  upon  them,  would  have 
dragged  him  forth  to  torture  and  death.  The  barber, 
however,  was  his  very  stanch  friend.  When  he  persisted 
in  going  out  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  fun,  that  excellent 
Figaro  insisted  on  lending  him  a  blouse  by  way  of  cegi^. 
In  that  guise  he  passed  easily  for  a  Republican,  but  he 
saw  enough  in  two  days  to  cure  him  of  Paris  forever. 

The  Garde  Municijyale,  loyal  to  the  core,  fought  like 
heroes  to  stem  the  tide  of  revolution — to  no  purpose. 
Against  them  en  revanche  the  whole  storm  of  popular  fury 
burst.  At  first  it  appeared  as  tbough  order  would  be  re- 
stored, but  the  barricades  rose  as  by  magic.  A  cab  or 
wagon  was  upset  across  the  road.  Then  the  paving  stones 
were  ripped  up  by  a  thousand  hands,  the  neighboring 
houses  looted  of  their  furniture,  and,  presto,  the  mounds 
they  formed  were  guarded  by  blouse-clad  ouvriers,  some 
with  firearms,  others  with  swords  and  crowbars.  Against 
them  the   Garde  charged  with  varying  fortune.     If  they 


168  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

broke  through,  the  mob  dispersed  right  and  left,  only,  how- 
ever, to  reassemble  as  soon  as  the  chance  offered.  The 
friendly  barber  shouldered  a  musket  and  fired  with  the 
rest  on  the  Garde,  till  at  last  victory  declared  for  the 
mob;  and  then  commenced  those  scenes  of  barbarity  which 
caused  the  blood  of  the  English  gentleman  witnessing  them 
to  run  cold.  They,  the  mob,  broke  the  Garde,  and  took 
them  in  detail,  the  worst  fate  being  reserved  for  those  who 
surrendered.  Three  of  these  brave  citizen  soldiers  were 
burned  alive.  Charles  Reade  saw  them  pile  the  pyre  around 
them  and  light  it,  the  while  they  danced  and  yelled  the 
carmagnole.  For  the  mob  was  drunk  not  merely  with  blood, 
but  with  ardent  spirits  and  wine,  the  women  being  even 
more  brutal  than  the  men.  A  fourth  member  of  the  Garde 
was  dragged  in  front  of  the  barricade  to  suffer  the  same 
fate,  when,  fortunately  for  him,  a  citizen  recognized  his 
face  as  that  of  a  friend,  tore  the  blouse  from  off  his  own 
back,  rushed  madly  forward,  and  flung  it  over  the  head 
and  shoulders  of  the  doomed  man,  crying  aloud,  as  the 
terror-stricken  garde  suffered  himself  to  be  thus  clad,  that 
he  was  now  a  citizen.  Incredible  as  it  may  read,  it  is 
none  the  less  true — teste  Charles  Reade — that  this  mad, 
murderous  mob  burst  into  tears,  and  fell  to  kissing  the 
garde  whom  but  for  this  meaningless  incident  they  would 
have  ruthlessly  murdered.  He  was  verily  plucked  as  a 
brand  from  the  burning. 

A  little  of  this  experience  went  a  long  way  with  an  ad- 
venturer not  wholly  destitute  of  common-sense.  At  that 
crisis  a  Red  Republic  was  a  possibility;  a  government 
wielding  an  executive  a  bare  probability.  Under  such 
conditions  Paris  became  metamorphosed  into  a  paradise 
of  terror,  and  it  needed  but  the  whisper  of  a  chattering  or 
malicious  tongue  to  doom  to  death  the  young  Briton  in 


Paris  and  Jpsden.  169 

the  blouse,  for  that  pallium,  though  for  a  citizen  little 
short  of  miraculous,  on  the  back  of  an  alien,  and  that  alien 
a  child  of  perfidious  Albion,  would  have  been  regarded  as 
a  paltry  fraud.  To  escape  was  the  problem.  The  friendly 
barber  laughed  at  the  nervousness  of  citizen  Charles,  and 
possibly  was  loath  to  lose  his  lodger;  when,  however,  a  mob 
raving  with  blood  and  brandy  took  to  incendiarism  pour 
s'amuser,  Monsieur  Figaro  admitted  reluctantly  that  things 
had  got  to  be  a  little  unsettled,  and  agreed  to  facilitate 
liis  lodger's  exit.  A  cab  was  prevailed  on  to  stop  opposite 
the  door  in  the  dead  of  night.  Into  it  Charles  Reade  was 
bundled,  and  at  once  crouched  beneath  a  truss  of  straw. 
The  driver's  orders  were  to  crawl  as  though  he  were  return- 
ing with  his  straw  to  his  stables,  in  order  to  avoid  suspi- 
cion. This  programme  was  carried  through  to  the  letter, 
and  after  a  series  of  hair-breadth  escapes  Charles  Reade 
astonished  and  delighted  his  relatives  by  producing  a 
whole  skin,  though  one  unshaven  and  unkempt.  He  left 
behind  him  a  score  of  valuable  fiddles  and  some  pictures, 
together  with  an  extensive  wardrobe,  a  portion  whereof 
only  he  was  enabled  to  recover. 

In  this  year,  1848,  he  spent  a  longer  time  than  was  his 
wont  at  Ipsden.  His  father  had  almost  lost  his  sight,  and, 
deprived  of  the  field  sports  which  had  been  his  employ- 
ment through  life,  rapidly  developed  acute  depression  of 
spirits.  The  picturesque  old  gentleman  with  hair  white 
as  the  riven  snow,  and  features  statuesque  in  their  chisel- 
ling, used  to  roam  his  grounds  all  day  leaning  on  the  arm 
of  his  valet,  the  tears  coursing  down  his  cheeks. 

He  fancied  he  was  ruined. 

Oddly  enough,  ten  miles  only  from  Ipsden  at  that  very 
moment,  a  millionaire,  who  had  travelled  up  to  London  in 
a  wagon  without  so  much  as  the  typical  shilling,  and 


170  Memoir  of  Charles  Heade. 

amassed  a  fortune  in  comparison  with  which  the  rent-roll 
of  Ipsden  was  a  pittance,  had  to  be  humored  by  the  dole 
of  a  pauper.  They  gave  him  his  out-door  relief  every 
Saturday,  and  he  took  it  in  blissful  ignorance  that  he  was 
the  owner  of  some  three  millions  of  money. 

The  poor  old  Squire  of  Ipsden's  illusion  never  reached 
to  that  extent,  but  he  Avas  none  the  loss  persuaded  that 
ruin  had  overtaken  him,  and  his  son  Charles  was  requi- 
sitioned to  try  every  expedient  in  order  to  ward  oflf  the 
pitiable  tears  and  moans. 

In  his  youth  the  Squire  had  been  fond  of  whist.  The 
strict  regime  of  Messieurs  Faber  and  Fry  voted  all  sorts 
of  games  of  chance  anathema,  and  for  some  fifty  odd  years 
a  card  had  not  been  visible  in  Ipsden  House.  The  medical 
men,  however,  prescribed  amusement  as  the  sole  palliative, 
and  with  great  reluctance  Mrs.  Rcade  assented  to  son 
Charles  producing  a  pack  of  the  devil's  pictures.  His  mo- 
tive was  filial  and  humane,  but  the  devoted  son  must  have 
wished  ere  long  that  he  had  hearkened  to  the  voice  of  his 
mother.  It  soon  came  to  this:  either  the  Squire  must  be 
kept  going  at  whist  from  breakfast  to  luncheon,  from 
luncheon  to  dinner,  and  so  on  till  bed-time,  or  else  he  would 
give  way  to  low  spirits,  and  that  to  an  alarming  extent. 
Charles  Reade  in  his  latter  days  became  as  great  a  devotee 
of  whist  as  his  sire,  but  this  arrangement  amounted  to  servi- 
tude. Friends  of  the  family  were  invited  to  visit  Ipsden 
simply  to  take  a  hand  at  the  everlasting  whist-table.* 


*  On  one  occasion  the  eldest  surviving  son,  wlio,  though  sobered  by  age, 
still  enjoyed  a  practical  joke,  created  by  a  simple  trick  the  most  profound 
amazement  in  the  minds  of  the  three  other  persons,  his  mother,  father,  and 
sister, who  with  himself  were  sitting  at  the  whist-table.  Making  some  ex- 
cuse that  the  cards  were  mislaid,  he  went  in  search  of  them,  and,  liaving 


Paris  and  Ipsden.  171 

Whatever  difference  may  have  temporarily  separated 
father  and  son  in  the  past,  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  that 
at  this  crisis  Charles  Reade  played  a  dutiful,  and  indeed 
devoted,  part.  Moreover,  it  so  happened  that  his  sister 
Ellinor  at  the  moment  was  exerting  all  her  influence  to 
build  a  new  church  at  Stoke  Row,  a  lonely  hamlet  in  the 
centre  of  the  beech-woods  on  the  summit  of  the  Chilterns, 
a  portion  whereof  belonged  to  her  father,  who  gave  the 
site  for  church  and  parsonage.  Mrs.  Reade  felt  it  incum- 
bent upon  her  to  dose  the  bodies  of  the  poor  on  her  hus- 
band's estate,  while  her  daughter  exercised  a  similar  care 
for  their  souls,  and  the  project  of  a  church  for  heathen 
Stoke  Row  fired  her  enthusiasm.  The  era  of  excessive 
church-building  had  not  yet  set  in,  so  that  what  with  Ox- 
ford and  Cambridge,  the  Church  and  the  world,  her  task 
was  not  quite  superhuman.  It  necessitated,  nevertheless, 
a  mountain  of  hard  work  ;  and  certain  it  is,  that  if  Charles 
Reade  had  as  yet  cherished  any  dream  of  authorship  it 
would  have  been  placed  in  abeyance.  He  Avas,  however, 
then  leading  a  homely  and  domestic  existence,  the  general 
utility  man  of  the  family  circle,  whist-player,  begging-let- 
ter writer,  and  game  provider,  not  to  mention  companion 

found  them,  Mr.  Reade  being  the  dealer,  volunteered  to  deal  for  him. 
Hearts  were  trumps.  Each  player  took  up  his  hand,  when  a  loud  excla- 
mation was  heard  from  Mr.  Reade.  "  Good  gracious,"  he  said,  "  I  have 
got  all  trumps."  "And  I,"  excitedly  cried  his  wife,  "have  all  spades." 
"And  I,"  shouted  William,  "  have  nothing  but  clubs."  "And  here  are  all 
the  diamonds,"  said  Ellinor.  Not  for  a  moment  was  a  trick  suspected. 
The  miracle,  as  it  appeared  to  the  players,  created  the  most  profound  sur- 
pri.«e,  not  to  say  a  feeling  with  three  of  the  number  of  uneasiness  •,  the 
fourth  remained  stolidly  staring  at  the  cards,  which  by  common  consent 
were  put  away  for  that  afternoon.  The  amazement  was  too  profound  to 
permit  of  the  game  being  played,  nor  did  the  culprit  ever  confess.  Long 
afterwards  the  wonderful  occurrence  formed  the  topic  of  conversation. 


172  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

to  his  nephews  during  their  holidays,  and  to  their  sisters 
at  other  times. 

At  last  the  ecclesiastical  business  was  settled,  and  he 
shall  tell  the  story  himself  in  his  letter  to  brother  Edward 
at  Benares.- 

"Dear  Edward, — I  have  long  promised  myself  the  pleasure  of  relating 
to  jou  the  events  of  which  our  house  and  neighborhood  have  lately  been 
the  scene — events  interesting  to  all  right-thinking  persons,  but  to  none 
more  than  yourself,  who  are  acquainted  with  the  natural  beauties  of  our 
wood-girdled  hamlets,  and  the  moral  degradation  which,  alas !  has  hitherto 
disfigured  them. 

*'  You  are  aware  what  difficulties  have  been  encountered.  First,  a  con- 
siderable sum  was  to  be  raised  for  the  building  of  a  church ;  and  this, 
through  the  kindness  and  zeal  of  Christian  friends,  was  our  least  impedi- 
ment. 

"  Next,  the  endowment  was  to  be  obtained  partly  from  the  College  of 
St.  John's,  Cambridge,  holding  the  great  tithes  of  the  parish,  and  partly 
from  surplus  subscriptions,  aided  by  a  liberal  provision,  for  which  our  ex- 
cellent vicar,  the  Rev.  R.  Twopeny,  is  to  be  tlianked ;  and  I  am  sorry  to 
say  we  encountered  in  the  college  a  wearisome  obstacle. 

"Ail  this  arranged,  our  Bishop  declined  to  consecrate  the  new  church 
until  a  curate  should  be  found  ready  at  once  to  undertake  its  service. 

"  I  fear  we  did  not  at  first  appreciate  our  diocesan's  wisdom  in  making 
this  stipulation  ;  but  now  we  humbly  confess  our  error. 

"  This  last  hinderance  was  not  so  easily  removed  as  we  hoped,  as  3-ou 
yourself  might  have  anticipated. 

"  The  secluded  situation  of  Stoke  Row — the  circumstance  of  there  being 
no  house  for  the  clergyman — and  no  water  fit  for  use  within  a  distance  of 
several  miles. 

"  These  disadvantages,  added  to  the  smallness  of  the  stipend,  no  doubt 
deterred  many  of  those  whose  zeal  languishes  without  the  allurements  of 
what  is  called  society,  and  is  incapable  of  dispensing  with  earthly  lux- 
uries. 

"  At  last,  however,  one  was  found  willing  to  labor  in  this  new  vineyard, 
upon  such  terms  as  it  offered,  a  gentleman  and  scholar,  indifferent  to 
society  of  rich  or  poor,  and  content  to  divide  his  time  between  the  doctors 
of  the  Church  and  its  services.     11  is  name  is  Cole. 


Paris  and  Jpsden.  173 

"  This  was  duly  notified  to  the  Bishop  of  Oxford,  and  after  some  few 
changes  the  consecration  was  finally  fixed  for  Tuesday,  the  19th  October, 
1848. 

"  As  the  Bishop,  the  Archdeacons  of  Berks  and  Oxford,  and  other  per- 
sonages were  to  be  entertained  and  sleep,  on  Monday,  at  Ipsden,  consider- 
able preparation,  you  may  suppose,  was  necessary.  My  gun  was  put  in 
requisition,  nor  was  Covent  Garden  neglected.  My  father  alone  remained 
discontented  with  our  efforts,  on  the  ground  of  a  falling  off  in  our  butter, 
which  used  to  be  excellent,  nor  could  he  be  brought  to  believe  that  a 
Bishop  could  put  up  with  butter  so  inferior  to  what  he,  by  his  position, 
must  be  accustomed  to. 

"  The  solicitude  after  all  was  superfluous.  The  Bishop  does  not  cat 
butter. 

"Our  guests  were  all  assembled  on  the  Monday  evening,  when  the 
Bishop  arrived  in  exact  time.  He  made  a  hasty  toilet,  and  immediately 
reappeared. 

"  He  had  not  brushed  his  hair.     We  understand  it  is  not  his  custom. 
•   "  We  were  at  opposite  ends  of  the  dinner-table  —  the  Bishop  and  I. 
It  was  my  fate  to  lead  out  Lady  Catherine  Berens.     At  the  Bishop's  end 
of  the  table  the  conversation  was  as  lively  as  it  was  dull  where  I  was. 

"  Dr.  Wilberforce's  liigh  and  earnest  tone  in  the  pulpit,  and  his  deep 
fervor,  whenever  a  religious  subject,  always  welcome,  is  started,  would 
hardly  prepare  a  common  observer  for  his  ordinary  conversation,  the 
characteristic  of  which  is  decidedly  humorous.  I  wish  my  situation  had 
permitted  me  to  bring  away  some  of  those  sprightly  sallies  with  which  he 
entertained  the  ladies  at  his  end  of  the  table. 

"Tuesday,  a  quarter-past  eleven  a.m.,  our  caValcade  started  for  the 
new  church.  The  Bishop,  some  time  after  the  rest,  led  by  me  and  Mr. 
Pearson  in  my  pony  gig,  arrived  on  Stoke  Row  Common.  We  saw  a  very 
pretty  sight,  all  the  country  people  collected  in  tlieir  gayest  colors  round 
the  edifice.  The  church,  which  is  small,  was  entirely  filled  with  visitors, 
after  which  a  form  was  introduced,  capable  of  accommodating  a  dozen 
more  of  the  inhabitants.  They,  however,  preferred  watching  the  vehicles 
outside. 

"The  musical  part  of  the  service  was  provided  by  Mr.  Benfield,  of 
Reading,  his  daughters,  and  dependants,  and  was  done  in  a  pure  and  sim- 
ple style.  The  Bishop  preached  an  excellent  discourse.  I  wish  I  could 
give  you  some  idea  of  his  eloquence  and  impressive  delivery  of  sacred 
truths,  uttered  in  their  full  breadth  without  any  mincing  of  the  matter. 


174  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

My  perverse  memory  contains  rhetorical  flowers,  when  the  root  was  bettor 
bringing  away. 

"  He  illustrated  the  difference  between  professing  and  true  Christians 
in  the  difference  between  dead  things  and  living. 

" '  These  people,'  said  lie,  '  go  through  religious  appearances  from  cus- 
tom, because  it  is  the  fashion,  because  respectable  people  in  their  line  of 
life  all  do  it— dead  things  go  with  the  stream,  but  living  things  go  by  a 
course  of  their  own,  now  with,  now  against,  the  stream.'  Then  lie  com- 
pared the  former  charactera  to  stones,  on  whom,  perhaps,  the  gospel  sun 
shines  for  a  while,  the  warmth  dies  away,  and  they  are  colder  than  the 
very  ground  which  surrounds  them.  IIow  unlike  those  living  things,  the 
fruits  and  flowers,  which  absorb  these  beams,  and  give  them  back  in 
beauty  and  perfume! 

"  Then  he  depicted  a  certain  empty  religion,  of  which,  after  describing 
its  pretensions,  he  pronounced  '  it  shrinks  at  singularitj-,  faints  under  a 
laugh,  and  dies  under  the  Cross.' 

"  In  short,  to  make  a  singular  observation,  the  sermon  ended  too 
soon. 

"On  the  termination  of  the  service,  I  went  to  make  sure  the  musicians 
were  being  taken  care  of.  I  found  them  very  hungry,  sitting  round  a 
table,  gazing  on  vacancy.  I  left  them  with  the  cheerless  horizon  broken 
by  a  fillet  of  veal,  a  gigantic  ham,  and  a  cake,  on  which  the  table  might 
have  been  set,  instead  of  it  on  the  table.  These  provisions  were  kept  in 
abeyance  for  the  clergy,  on  whose  charity  I  knew  I  could  presume, 

"  I  need  not  describe  our  return ;  it  was  conducted  in  the  same  order 
we  came. 

"  The  Bishop  dined  with  Mr.  Twopeny  at  the  vicarage,  returning  thence 
to  our  house  to  sleep.  Unfortunately,  his  coachman,  to  save  himself 
trouble,  prevailed  on  ours  (James  Eutt)  to  go  for  his  lordship  to  the 
vicarage.  When  the  carriage  was  announced,  the  Bishop  was  engaged 
in  interesting  conversation,  and  did  not  move.  So  after  a  few  minutes, 
Mr.  Twopeny's  dolt  of  a  man-servant  came  again  to  him. 

"  Dolt. — '  Mr.  Reade's  horses  are  waiting,  sir.' 

"  Bishop. — '  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken,  doubtless  my  horses  are 
waiting.' 

"  Dolt. — '  No  !  no !  I  tell'ee,  it's  Mr.  Reade's  carriage  and  horses  as  be 
waiting.' 

"  So  the  prelate  was  actually  bundled  off,  against  his  will,  and,  having 
arrived,  told  us  the  tale  in  his  dramatic  way. 


Paris  and  Ipsden.  175 

"  Of  course  we  were  shocked  that  he  should  have  thought  of  deferring 
so  much  to  our  horses. 

"  AVhereupon  he  reminded  my  mother  that  he  had  been  admonished 
twenty  years  ago,  when  curate  of  Checkenden,  that  he  was  not  to  keep  the 
Ipsden  horses  waiting ! 

"  Thus  the  grave  events  of  the  period  were  diversified  by  incidents  of  a 
lighter  character." 

This  letter,  it  must  be  remembered,  was  addressed  to  a 
brother  on  whom  he  had  not  set  eyes  for  twenty  years. 
Mr.  Edward  A.  Reade  at  that  time  was  Commissioner  of 
Benares,  and  one  of  the  warmest  supporters  of  Evangel- 
ical Missions  in  the  province  of  Bengal.  From  Benares 
he  was  transferred  afterwards  to  Agra,  where,  as  a  senior 
member  of  the  Sudder  Board,  and  acting  Lieutenant-Gov- 
ernor of  the  North-Western  Provinces  during  the  Mutiny, 
he  rendered  such  signal  service  to  India  and  its  European 
denizens  as  to  have  honestly  merited  promotion.  Instead, 
he  was  passed  over  in  favor  of  his  junior,  who  had  been 
out  of  harm's  way  at  Calcutta.  This  job  on  the  part  of 
Lord  Canning  was  apologized  for  on  the  plea  that  Mr. 
Edward  A.  Reade,  though  the  warm  friend  of  both  the 
Lawrences,  and  held  in  the  highest  estimation  by  the 
native  princes,  whose  loyalty  his  personal  influence  se- 
cured, was  nicknamed  "  Primitive "  on  account  of  inca- 
pacity. There  never  was  a  grosser  slander.  He  was 
dubbed  "  Primitive"  because  of  his  supposed  affinity  with 
Methodism,  albeit  really  he  was  an  attached  Anglican  of 
the  Low-Church  type.  In  addressing  a  brother  whose 
belief  was  so  pronounced  as  to  have  afterwards  virtually 
robbed  him  of  the  reward  earned  by  unostentatious  hero- 
ism, Charles  Reade  adopted,  let  us  say  diplomatically,  a 
tone  calculated  to  win  his  sympathy.  When,  in  later  life, 
he  reverted  to  the  views  which  colored  his  boyhood,  if 


17*  Memoir  of  CJiarUs  Reade. 

not  his  young  manhood,  his  pen  often  flowed  much  in  the 
same  strain;  and  the  theatrical  acquaintance  who  accused 
him  of  religious  melancholia  would  be  surprised  possibly 
to  perceive  the  similarity  between  his  style  of  1848  and 
that  of  1881.  In  the  former  year,  at  all  events,  he  was 
free  from  melancholia,  yet  he  writes  as  one  in  harmony 
with  Christianity.  It  is  surely  not  necessary  for  a  man 
to  be  a  lunatic  in  order  to  be  a  believer  in  the  Gospel  of 
Jesus  Christ,  and  the  assumption  that  Charles  Reade  lost 
his  head  when  he  regained  his  conscience  is  one  which, 
on  the  ground  of  its  impudence  alone,  arouses  our  just 
indignation. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

MRS.   SEYMOUK. 

We  are  now  approaching  the  period  when  Charles 
Reade  first  essayed  authorship.  He  had  been  a  great, 
because  a  wide,'  reader,  and  the  habit  of  assimilation  and 
rapid,  though  close,  observation  was  destined  to  stand 
him  in  good  stead.  Like  almost  every  author  who  has 
attained  celebrity,  he  began  by  sowing  a  large  crop  of 
literary  wild  oats.  He  believed  himself  to  be  a  dramatist 
born,  and  at  the  outset  his  thoughts  focussed  themselves 
entirely  on  the  stage.  It  seldom  seems  to  have  occurred 
to  him  to  essay  fiction,  albeit  he  conceived  himself  capable 
of  excelling  in  criticism  should  he  ever  attempt  to  exercise 
that  dormant  faculty.  There  was  at  the  time  little  to 
encourage  the  playwright.  There  were,  comparatively 
speaking,  but  few  play-houses,  and  those  few  in  the  hands 
of  a  small  clique.  A  good  novel  commanded  a  high  price, 
whereas  a  successful  play  yielded  but  a  slender  return  to 
the  author  who  could  not  afford  to  back  his  own  venture. 
Charles  Reade,  however,  thirsted  not  so  much  for  gold  as 
for  fame.  True,  his  essentially  unpractical  nature  and 
rather  expensive  tastes  had  already  dipped  into  his  Fel- 
lowship, and  money  was  really  a  superior  consideration 
to  one  whose  reversionary  interest  at  that  time  was  not 
expected  to  exceed  two  thousand  pounds,  for  he  had  re- 
ceived from  his  father  already  nearly  half  a  younger  son's 
portion. 
8* 


178  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

No  man,  however,  suffered  less  from  the  auri  sacra 
fames;  none  was  less  mercenary.  His  ambition  was 
pure.  Give  him  fame.  Let  the  dullards  of  the  common 
room  and  the  heavy  respectabilities  of  Ipsden  learn  that 
he  could,  by  an  effort,  rise  far  above  their  level.  Let  the 
mighty  world  of  two  hemispheres  own  him  as  one  of  its 
true  aristocracy.  That  was  the  man's  aim,  and  he  direct- 
ed all  his  efforts  towards  it.  He  wrote  play  after  play 
with  the  pen  of  the  amateur,  yet  each  one  rising  above  its 
predecessor,  and  none  devoid  of  some  scintillae  of  brill- 
iance. Three  years  he  toiled  along  the  weary  road  of  fail- 
ure, still  cherishing  a  belief  in  himself,  still  preserving  a 
heart  of  grace,  yet  encountering  disappointments  such  as 
would  have  crushed  a  weaker  nature.  Worse  still,  as  his 
MSS.  proved  sterile,  in  like  proportion  his  creditors  grew 
importunate.  Oftentimes  he  was  harried  across  the  Chan- 
nel to  await  the  Bursar's  check  which  should  enable  him 
to  return  home;  yet  oftener  he  buried  himself  in  dingy 
courts  and  alleys  to  escape  the  attentions  of  Mr.  Sloman. 

At  the  close  of  1849  his  fine  old  sire  paid  the  debt  of 
nature.  His  eldest  surviving  son,  the  new  Squire,  pressed 
his  mother  still  to  occupy  the  old  home  where  she  had 
been  mistress  for  fifty -five  years,  and  she  remained  at  Ips- 
den House  until  1852.  During  these  years  Charles  was  a 
constant  visitor  at  Ipsden,  and,  when  he  confided  to  a  fond 
mother  his  pecuniary  diflaculties,  that  generous-hearted 
woman  at  once  permitted  him  to  anticipate  the  sum  he 
would  have  to  receive  under  her  marriage  settlement  at 
her  death.  He  rewarded,  it  may  be  added,  her  confidence 
by  regularly  paying  interest. 

This,  however,  served  but  as  a  stop-gap.  His  Fellow- 
ship of  Magdalen  yielded  little  more  than  £250  net  per 
annum,  and  the  Vinerian  Fellowship  about  £80.     He  had 


Mrs.  Seymour,  179 

every  incentive  to  labor,  and  as  months  rolled  on  his  toil 
redoubled,  so  much  so  that,  under  the  strain  of  mental 
work  and  disquiet,  his  health  gave  way,  not  indeed  seri- 
ously, for  he  was  naturally  robust  and  muscular,  yet  suffi- 
ciently to  augment  the  difficulties  of  his  position.  It  was 
the  managers  of  theatres,  who  could  not  be  persuaded  to 
accept  his  maiden  dramas,  that  in  the  main  caused  the 
mischief.  Stupid  people  can  persevere  without  belief  in 
themselves;  genius  never  loses  faith  in  itself  till  after  re- 
peated rebuffs,  but  when  first  it  begins  to  suspect  that  its 
confidence  may  be  misplaced  it  succumbs,  not  under  dis- 
illusion, but  rather  under  a  keen  sense  of  injustice.  These 
years  of  waiting  for  the  dawn  of  hope  aged  and  soured  one 
who  had  retained  the  freshness  and  sweetness  of  boyhood 
into  middle  life.  He  complained  bitterly  of  the  absence 
of  sympathy;  for  which  he  yearned  as  the  parched  land 
for  the  summer's  rain. 

He  found  it,  at  last,  perhaps  where  least  he  could  have 
expected  it. 

At  the  Haymarket  Theatre  there  was  playing,  under  the 
auspices  of  Mr.  Buckstone,  a  distinguished  comedian,  Mrs. 
Seymour.  She  was  magnanimous  and  appreciative,  and, 
like  many  women  of  her  calibre,  could  recognize  the  dif- 
ference between  a  real  and  a  sham  gentleman.  Ladies 
whom  the  voice  of  scandal  never  sullied  have  been  less 
warm-hearted  and  charitable  than  one  whom  the  world 
knocked  about,  and  who  none  the  less  gave  back  some 
positive  good  for  the  evil  she  received.  Had  her  father 
never  drifted  to  London  from  Somersetshire  she  would 
have  made  a  superlative  farmer's  wife  and  market-woman. 
As  it  was,  she  passed  through  the  dark  furnace  of  London 
life,  and  emerged  from  it  a  brave  and  benevolent  woman. 

Mrs.  Seymour  never  was  an  actress  of  the  very  highest 


180  Memoir  of  Charles  Iteade. 

rank.  She  had  brains;  she  was  brimful  of  the  dramatic 
instinct,  and  played  up  to  a  certain  level.  She  met  Charles 
Reade  when  she  was  at  her  zenith.  She  was  taking  the 
lead  at  the  llayraarket,  was  well-looking  off  the  stage,  and 
could  make  up  pretty,  though  her  figure  had  become  ma- 
tronly. She  was  in  receipt  of  a  good  weekly  salary;  she 
knew  every  one  who  was  any  one  in  the  land  of  Bohemia, 
and,  in  short,  her  influence  far  transcended  that  of  many 
an  eminent  author,  and  of  not  a  few  lessees  and  man- 
agers. 

It  chanced  one  night  that  Charles  Reade  saw  this  lady 
play.  Even  in  his  earlier  years  he  always  had  a  slight 
tendency  to  deafness,  and  Mrs.  Seymour's  ringing  tones 
saved  him  the  trouble  of  listening  with  an  effort.  At  once 
he  mentally  appraised  her  as  a  great  actress,  a  verdict  not 
universally  endorsed,  though  undoubtedly  she  rose  in  suit- 
able parts  above  mediocrity. 

Besides  her  voice,  he  admired  her  «^y  manner,  acquaint- 
ance with  the  stage,  and  physique.  Tastes  happily  differ, 
and  if  everybody  failed  to  share  his  unbounded  admira- 
tion of  the  actress,  he  was  by  no  means  her  sole  admirer. 
It  may,  however,  be  safely  predicted  that  he  stood  alone 
in  believing  her  to  be  a  really  great  artist.  Yet  it  was 
to  her  as  such  that  he  went  back  to  his  chambers  and 
addressed  a  letter. 

In  this  epistle  he  was  direct  rather  than  effusive.  Hint- 
ing broadly  his  appreciation,  he  nevertheless  kept  close  to 
the  point,  which  was  personal.  He  wished  her  to  give  him 
an  interview,  in  order  to  read  a  passage  from  a  play  he  had 
commenced.  The  response  was  in  the  affirmative.  Mrs. 
Seymour  would  see  Mr.  Charles  Reade. 

He  called  accordingly,  hat  in  hand.  He  had  been  snubbed 
all  along  the  line  by  people  of  her  craft,  including  Buck- 


Mrs.  Seymour.  181 

stone,  Webster,  and  the  rest  of  the  theatrical  set.  It  was 
with  diffidence  that  he  approached  her,  perhaps  with  a 
tinge  of  melancholy. 

He  read  her  a  scene  from  an  unfinished  drama.  She 
listened  as  middle-aged  women  do  who  have  been  bored 
perpetually  by  authors;  not  exactly  with  interest,  yet  not 
altogether  frigidly. 

"Yes,"  she  cried,  when  he  concluded,  "that's  good! 
That's  plotting.  But,"  with  a  merry  stage-laugh,  which 
had  become  natural  to  her,  "why  don't  you  write  nov- 
els ?" 

If  she  had  uttered  a  coarse  malediction  Charles  Reade 
could  have  borne  it  stoically.  This  suggestion  that  he  had 
better  try  another  line  cut  him  to  the  quick. 

"  I  am  trespassing  on  your  time,"  he  said,  rising  hastily. 

"  Oh,  no.     Pray  go  on." 

But  he  had  heard  enough.  Politely,  and  without  any 
show  of  the  offence  he  felt,  he  bowed  himself  out. 

Whatever  else  she  had  learned,  or  omitted  to  learn,  Mrs. 
Seymour,  at  all  events,  knew  the  male  sex  by  heart.  A 
glance  at  the  pale  face  of  the  tall  man,  who  barely  touched 
the  tip  of  her  fingers  as  he  left  the  room,  told  her  that  he 
was  disappointed.  She  was  essentially  good-natured.  She 
felt  sorry.  Besides,  he  was  a  fine  man,  with  the  hel  air  of 
one  accustomed  to  society. 

"Hard  up,  I  suppose,"  she  muttered,  "like  the  rest  of 
them.  Wanted  me  to  buy  his  play  for  an  old  song,  no 
doubt — but  of  course  that's  absurd.  Still,  I  don't  like  to 
see  a  fellow  of  his  sort  down  on  his  luck,  and  I'll  tell  him 
as  much." 

She  was  no  more  in  love  with  Charles  Reade  than  he 
with  her;  perhaps  it  is  no  libel  upon  her  to  affirm  that  she 
was  quite  beyond  falling  in  love  with  any  man.    She  could 


183  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

feel  as  a  friend  for  man  or  woman,  not  as  a  lover;  indeed, 
to  place  her  idiosyncrasies  in  their  true  light,  we  may  an- 
ticipate the  course  of  events  so  far  as  to  state  that,  some 
twenty  years  later,  she  said,  "  I  hope  Mr.  Reade  will  nev- 
er ask  me  to  many  him,  as  I  should  certainly  refuse." 
This  after  they  had  been  friends  and  theatrical  partners 
for  so  long. 

To  revert  to  our  narrative.  This  kind-hearted  woman, 
whose  conscience  accused  her  of  meanness,  sat  down  and 
indited  a  downright  blundering  but  most  considerate  let- 
ter. She  began  by  expressing  her  regret  that  a  gentleman 
of  his  obvious  birth  and  breeding  should  be  out  of  spirits 
on  the  score  of  money;  adding  that  while,  as  a  matter  of 
business,  she  could  not  make  him  an  offer  for  his  play,  she 
begged  he  would  accept  the  loan  of  five  pounds  (bank-note 
enclosed).  A  lady  of  her  sort  would  not  unnaturally  con- 
nect sad  looks  with  empty  pockets,  and  never  for  a  second 
suspect  that  it  was  baffled  ambition  which  blanched  Charles 
Reade's  cheek  rather  than  the  want  of  bank-notes.  She 
■was  soon  to  be  disillusioned. 

Her  letter  affected  its  recipient  profoundly.  He  knew 
how  thoroughly  she  had  misread  him,  but  readily  pardoned 
the  error  in  consideration  of  the  sympathy  her  act  evi- 
denced so  demonstratively.  This  time  he  would  not  wait 
for  an  appointment,  but  called  with  her  bank-note  in  his 
hand. 

"  No,"  said  he,  his  words  expressing  an  emotion  he  very 
rarely  betrayed,  "  that  is  not  what  I  need.  But  you  have 
unintentionally  supplied  it." 

What  passed  at  that  interview  is  not  known.  Each  had 
learned  in  a  moment  to  respect  the  other,  and  we  may  be 
sure  that  a  friendship  thus  commenced  was  from  the  out- 
set regarded  as  sacred.     It  had,  moreover,  to  develop. 


Mrs.  Seymour.  183 

They  were  as  yet  strangers;  and  if  Mrs.  Seymour  found 
for  the  first  time  a  man  of  genius  who  cared  neither  for 
money  nor  love,  but  coveted  fame  and  friendship,  celeb- 
rity and  sympathy,  Charles  Reade  was  equally  charmed 
by  at  last  discovering  a  woman  who  could  understand  his 
motives  and  ambitions,  and  was  ready  to  give  him  what  he 
sorely  needed,  the  first  step  on  the  ladder. 

It  must,  moreover,  be  categorically  asserted,  on  the  in- 
dividual authority  of  the  late  Mr.  Winwood  Reade,  who 
■was  a  constant  inmate  subsequently  of  tlieir  house  in  Bol- 
ton Row,  that  the  friendship  between  these  two  was  Pla- 
tonic. Mr.  Winwood  Reade  was  an  avowed  atheist,  the 
bitterest  enemy  of  Christianity  of  his  age,  a  man  who,  on 
philosophic  grounds,  despised  morality.  He  would  have 
treated  a  liaison  between  his  uncle  and  Mrs.  Seymour,  not 
merely  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  as  derogatory  to  neither. 
Yet  it  is  a  fact  that  he  went  out  of  his  way  to  assure  some 
of  those  who  were  most  deeply  interested  in  his  uncle  of 
his  positive  conviction  that  their  relations  were  those  of 
friends  only.  And  although  Mr.  Winwood  Reade's  views 
were  otherwise  devoid  of  principle  or  belief,  he  was  truth- 
ful invariably,  and  on  matters  of  fact  worthy  of  credit. 

It  is  all  the  more  needful  in  limine  to  insist  on  this,  be- 
cause if  Charles  Reade's  partnership  with  a  practical  woman 
of  the  world  was  of  the  nature  of  a  morganatic  marriage, 
their  lives  were  a  brazen  fraud.  For  there  was  no  con- 
cealment, no  dove-cote,  in  St.  John's  Wood,  or  other  ex- 
pedient to  avoid  the  gaze  of  the  world;  on  the  contrary, 
the  author  introduced  the  actress  to  his  family  as  the  lady 
who  kept  house  for  him.  He  took  her  to  Oxford,  and  in- 
vited his  college  to  meet  her  on  the  same  footing.  He 
would  have  punished  the  man  who  dared  insinuate  that 
Mrs.  Seymour  was  his  mistress.     Nay  more,  she  was  per- 


184  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

fectly  free  to  wed  whom  she  would  after  the  death  of  her 
husband;  and  he  equally  free,  after  that  he  had  amassed 
fortune  sufficient  to  have  enabled  him  to  dispense  with  his 
Fellowship.  Neither  did  marry.  The  link  remained  un- 
broken to  the  end.     "  Honi  soit  qid  mat  y  pense." 

From  a  literary  point  of  view  Mrs.  Seymour's  five-pound 
note  proved  the  nucleus  of  fortune  and  of  fame.  It  con- 
verted her  into  his  fast  friend,  and  her  wit,  never  at  a  loss 
for  an  expedient,  assisted  him  at  every  turn.  She  was  the 
architect  of  his  fortune,  if  not  of  his  reputation. 

Just  previous  to  his  first  acquaintance  with  this  lady  he 
had  formed  a  sort  of  literary  combination  with  the  late 
Mr.  Tom  Taylor,  a  Cambridge  man,  and  a  successful  play- 
wright. The  Reade  and  Taylor  alliance  commenced  with 
"  A  Ladies'  Battle  " — a  singularly  awkward  translation  of 
a  singularly  pat  title.  The  play,  however,  as  adapted  for 
the  British  public  by  these  authors,  achieved  something 
more  than  a  succes  d^estime,  being  on  the  lines  of  drawing- 
room  comedy,  an  art  as  yet  uninvented. 

An  industrious,  on  the  average,  yet  occasionally  desultory 
writer,  an  unpractical  and  unmethodical  man  in  his  private 
habits,  Charles  Reade  began  diaries,  to  break  them  off  ab- 
ruptly, and  leave  a  hiatus  of  years.  Fortunately,  at  this 
intermediate  stage  of  his  career,  when  he  was  collaborating 
as  an  obscurity  with  a  celebrity,  he  jotted  down  a  record 
of  his  sensations.  It  is  fragmentary,  spasmodic,  and  care- 
less, but,  notwithstanding,  affords  a  fair  index  of  his  mental 
state.     We  append  the  following  extracts  : 

•'Ipsden  House,  Wallingford,  May  7, 1852. 

"  I  am  so  ill  in  mind  and  body  that  I  have  resolved  to 
go  to  Malvern. 

"  Bellemie  Hotely  Malvern. — What  is  more  horrible  than 
being  alone  in  a  strange  place  at  an  inn,  and  it  raining  ? 


Mrs,  Seymour.  186" 

"  Then  the  doctors  are  like  Eastern  princes.  Dr.  Gully, 
I  am  told,  receives  no  visits  after  noon.  So  I  am  to  take 
mine  ease  in  mine  inn  till  to-morrow. 

"May  18. — On  the  lookout  for  characters.  There  is  in 
Dr.  Gully's  establishment  a  gentleman,  a  very  wealthy  man, 
who  leaves  home  and  immures  himself  chez  Gully,  and 
deserts  all  family  connections.  Why  ?  He  says  because 
he  eats  too  much  pudding  at  home,  and  makes  himself  ill. 
So  far  so  good.  But  here  comes  an  inconsistency.  He 
eats  too  much  pudding  chez  Gully,  and  makes  himself  ill 
in  this  temple  of  health.  Now  if  a  man's  bowels  are  to  go 
wrong,  why  not  in  the  bosom  of  his  family  ?  I  wish  some- 
body would  explain  this  to  me.  He  worries  me.  I  don't 
see  it,  and  I  loathe  the  unintelligible.  But  is  this  a  char- 
acter ?  or  tout  bonnement  ten  dne  f 

"  June  7,  Malvern. — 1  have  now  been  a  month  in  this 
place,  and  were  I  to  call  it  a  month  stolen  from  ray  life,  it 
would  not  be  far  from  the  truth. 

"It  has  been  a  month  of  ennui  and  utter  collapse  of 
bodily  and  mental  power.  Mine  is  a  nature  that  requires 
some  little  amusement,  and  also  the  sound  of  some  little 
human  sentiment.  Deprived  of  these  for  so  many  dreary 
days,  solitary  and  cheerless,  my  mind  is  collapsing,  and 
will  go  unless  I  save  myself  by  flight. 

"  I  came  here  to  work  !  What  have  I  done.  I  have  writ- 
ten in  these  thirty  days  ten  pages  of  a  novel ;  I  have  lost 
health,  time,  and  digestion.  But  it  serves  me  right !  I 
knew  beforehand  I  could  not  write  a  novel  in  a  dungeon. 
I  shall  certainly  run  off  one  of  these  days.  To  Paris? 
Anywhere,  and  wash  the  taste  of  this  Dead  Sea  out  of  my 
soul. 

"  Such  is  the  result  of  a  month  filched  from  my  short  life 
in  this  wretched  place. 


186  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

"  June  17. — Forty  days,  constant  wind,  so  that  I  have  not 
been  able  to  sit  one  half-hour  in  the  air.  No  acquaintance 
with  a  grain  of  feeling  or  brains,  and  I  cannot  stand  dolts 
or  fleshy  statues. 

"  Took  what  they  call  a  larap-bath  the  other  day.  I  was 
to  perspire.  No  such  thing.  Fainted  instead.  More  re- 
fined, but  less  agreeable. 

"June  24. — How  hard  it  is  to  find  a  horse  that  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  ride,  as  rare  as  a  play  that  does  not  yawn  you, 
or  a  woman  that  does  not  deceive  you.  For  all  that,  I 
have  found  a  black  mare  whose  paces  are  delicious.  Like 
all  watering-place  hacks,  she  is  safer  galloping  down  hill 
than  walking. 

"  Read  Vol.  I.  of  *  Pendennis ' — an  imitation  of  Field- 
ing. 

"  I  hear is  thinking  of  taking  the  Olympic  Theatre. 

If  he  does  he  will  keep  it  from  becoming  a  dead  letter  to 
us  authors,  and  consequently  to  the  public,  who  find  nov- 
elty at  every  other  place  that  professes  to  unyawn  them. 
Here  they  have  got  nothing  hitherto  but  raw  meat  and 
cold  cabbage. 

"  How  ludicrous  is  the  amour-propre  of  English  actors. 
And  their  notion  that  no  author  knows  the  meaning  of  his 
own  words  !  A  play  of  mine  loses  so  enormously  when 
not  rehearsed  by  me  that  I  fear  I  shall  always  torment 
them  for  the  sake  of  my  own  credit.  What  a  difference 
there  was  in  the  'Ladies'  Battle'  brought  out  at  a  second- 
rate  theatre  under  my  rehearsal  and  at  a  first-rate  theatre 
under  Leigh  Murray's.  I  have  long  ago  made  up  my  mind 
to  give  actors  and  actresses  my  views  in  private,  and  inter- 
rupt as  little  as  may  be  upon  the  stage  at  rehearsal. 

"  Actors,  however — that  is  to  say,  English  actors — for 
French  actors  esteem  every  word  an  author  says  about  his 


Mrs.  Seymour.  187 

own  work  a  favor — are  a  little  unjust,  a  little  obscure  in 
their  judgment  on  this  point.  I,  for  instance,  do  not  teach 
them  acting  or  speaking.  I  don't  teach  my  actors  to  speak 
Shakespeare  or  Mark  Lemon,  I  simply  teach  them  how  to 
give  my  meaning  to  my  words,  and  every  competent  dra- 
matic author,  however  small  a  one,  can  do  this.  He  can- 
not speak  beautifully,  as  actors  ought,  but  he  can  give  the 
exact  point  of  every  sentence  in  his  work,  and  the  actor's 
business  is  to  tune  those  words,  and  point,  and  tone,  and 
dilate,  and  beautify  them.  This  is  done  by  Mrs.  Stirling 
in  the  long  soliloquy,  'Ladies'  Battle,'  and  was  done  all 
through  the  play. 

"Among  the  numerous  fallacies  of  the  stage  is  this. 
That  if  A  learns  something  from  B,  in  that  case  B  can't 
learn  anything  from  A.  Nonsense.  No  actor  ever  plays 
a  part  without  my  learning  from  him.  Why  ?  Because 
I  am  not  an  ass.  And  no  great  actor  ever  hears  me  read 
my  work  without  learning  something  from  me.  Why? 
Because  great  actors  are  not  asses. 

"The  great  always  learn  more  from  the  little  than  the 
little  from  the  great." 

This  last  paragraph  breathes  the  spirit  and  temper 
which  subsequently  found  vent  in  "The  Eighth  Com- 
mandment." His  heart  always  turned  towards  the  stage. 
It  was  more  than  a  hobby,  a  consuming  passion,  and  the 
unsympathetic  atmosphere  of  Malvern  caused  him  to  re- 
vert entirely  to  London  and  his  work  in  the  world. 

The  next  entry  in  his  diary  has  a  special  value  of  its 
own.  It  is  stated — albeit  we  have  not  been  able  to  verify 
the  allegation — that  in  America  "  Masks  and  Faces  "  is  in. 
variably  announced  as  by  Tom  Taylor.  As  originally 
produced  in  England  it  was  by  Tom  Taylor  and  Charles 


188  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

Rcade,  and  the  former  gained  the  lion's  share  of  the  credit. 
In  its  latest  revival  under  Mrs.  Bancroft,  we  have  it,  on 
the  authority  of  Charles  Reade  himself,  that  "  oddly 
enough  " — his  verba  verherrima — "  not  one  single  line  of 
Tom  Taylor  survived;"  every  line  was  Charles  Reade's. 

Bearing  in  mind  that  this  was  the  first  creation  of  his 
prolific  genius,  and  one  worthy  to  rank  side  by  side  with 
the  dramas  of  Goldsmith  and  Sheridan,  being,  in  fact,  an 
English  classic  of  the  highest  merit,  it  is  all-important 
that  its  authorship  should  be  defined.  The  following  in- 
dicates approximately  the  exact  share  Tom  Taylor  had  in 
the  play  as  originally  produced.  Even  that  share  was 
whittled  down,  while  in  the  long  run,  if  Charles  Reade  be 
a  witness  of  truth,  it  was  eliminated  altogether.  However, 
this  tells  the  tale  : 

"June  7.  —  Dramatic  annoyances  have  found  me  out 
even  here.  My  collaborateur,  Taylor,  has  written  a  new 
deno'\^ement,  and  without  submitting  it  to  me  has  read  it 
to  the  Haymarket  Company.  This  has  hurt  my  amour 
propre,  and  a  nobler  feeling  of  creative  paternity.  The 
end  of  a  play  is  all-important,  and  I  feel  that  Woffington, 
who  is  entirely  mine,  ought  at  least  to  have  been  subject 
to  my  brush  down  to  the  last.  What  is  the  history  of 
this  play  ?  I  wrote  a  certain  scene  in  which  Triplet, 
whose  broad  outlines  I  then  and  there  drew,  figured  ;  and 
another  personation  scene  containing  Peg  Wofl[ington, 
Colley  Cibber,  James  Quin.  I  showed  these  to  Taylor  as 
scenes.  He  liked  these  two  characters,  and  we  agreed  to 
write  a  comedy. 

"I  began.  I  wrote  the  greater  part  of  Act  I.,  and 
sketched  situations  of  second  act,  viz.,  the  company  as- 
sembled in  Mr.  Vane's  house,  and  Mrs.  Vane's  sudden  ap- 


Mrs.  Seymour.  189 

pearance,  Mrs.  Vane's  kindness  to  Triplet — a  mere  sketch  ; 
and  in  Triplet's  house  the  first  picture  scene  almost  as  it 
stands  now  ;  and  I  wrote  a  little  of  a  third  act.  Well, 
Taylor  came  down  to  me,  added  to  my  first  act,  filled  up 
the  chinks,  got  Vane  into  a  better  position,  and  made  the 
first  act  an  act. 

"  I  think  it  lay  idle  six  months.  He  then  went  to  work 
and  treated  the  rest  in  the  same  way.  So  that  at  this 
period  he  was  author  of  two  thirds  of  the  play,  so  far  as 
sentences  went.  He  Avas  satisfied  with  it,  and  read  it  to 
Mrs.  Stirling,  who  turned  her  back  on  him  and  said  plump, 
*It  won't  do.'  Full  stop  for  a  month  or  two.  Then  he 
wrote  to  me,  and  I  took  the  bull  by  the  horns.  Flung 
Act  I.  into  the  fire  and  wrote  a  new  act,  dashing  at  once 
into  the  main  story.  I  took  his  cold  stage  creation,  Po- 
mander, and  put  alcohol  into  him,  and,  on  the  plan  of  the 
great  French  dramatists,  I  made  the  plot  work  by  a  con- 
stant close  battle  between  a  man  and  a  woman.  I  then 
took  in  hand  Act  II.,  and  slashed  through  Taylor's  ver- 
boseness,  losing  none  of  his  beauties,  and  he  has  some 
pretty  things  in  that  act.  Then  I  came  to  Act  III.,  where 
I  found  my  own  picture-scene  wanted  little  alteration. 
Then,  with  the  help  of  a  speech  or  two  of  Mabel's  as 
sweet  as  honey  (Taylor's),  I  softened  Wofiington  so  that 
ahe  cried  in  the  frame,  and  Mabel  found  her  out. 

"  Then  I  offered  the  MS.  to  Taylor.  He  did  not  like 
the  fence-and-rail  prepared  for  him,  and  he  said,  'You 
reconcile  the  two  women,  and  I'll  go  on.'  Well,  I  did  so, 
and  I  was  not  sorry  to  stop,  for  I  was  working  in  a  high 
key,  and  did  not  see  my  way  to  sustain  it  through  a  mist 
of  stagy  manoeuvres  that  I  saw  ahead.  However,  while 
at  Paris  I  did  actually  finish  the  play  on  thin  paper,  and 
sent  it  to  my  collahorateiir. 


190  Memoir  of  Charles  JReade. 

"Taylor  did  not  like  my  denouement.  He  altered  it, 
and  read  his  to  Webster,  who  did  not  like  it.  He  has 
altered  it  again,  and  so  the  matter  stands.* 

♦  The  following  communication  from  Mr.  Arnold  Taylor  of  the  Local 
Government  Board  throws  additional  light  on  the  genesis  of  "  Masks  and 
Faces :" 

"  Charles  Reade  and  Tom  Tnylor  first  became  acquainted  in  the  winter 
of  1850-51,  or  spring  of  1851.  'Twas  on  this  wise:  Mrs.  Stirling  had  put 
into  Tom  Taylor's  hands  Reade's  play  of  '  Christie  Johnstone,'  and  told  the 
former  who  and  what  the  author  of  the  play  was.  My  brother  brought 
the  play  home  with  him  to  the  Temple,  where  I  lived  with  him  and  the 
late  Cuthbert  Ellison,  from  August,  1850,  to  August,  1851.  Hence  my  abil- 
ity to  fix  the  dates  above  given.  Ellison  and  I  were  going  to  bed,  when  my 
brother  came  in  and  said,  '  Stop;  I  want  to  read  you  a  play  by  an  Oxford 
man,  one  Charles  Reade,  about  whom  Mrs.  Stirling  has  been  talking  to  me.' 

"  We  listened  to  the  play  with  great  interest,  and  my  brother  warmly 
praised  certain  parts  of  it,  adding,  however, '  It  is  utterly  unsuited  for  the 
stage,  and  so  I  shall  tell  Mrs.  Stirling  when  I  return  her  the  MS.' 

"  The  verdict  was  a  sad  disappointment  to  Charles  Reade,  but  he  ac- 
cepted it,  and  subsequently  published  the  story  as  a  one-volume  novel,  in 
which  the  original  dramatic  form  is  visible  throughout. 

"  The  above  incident  led  to  the  subsequent  intimacy  of  Reade  and  Tay- 
lor, the  introduction  being  made  through  Mrs.  Stirling.  We  saw  him  from 
time  to  time  at  our  chambers,  3  Fig-Tree  Court,  Temple,  and  his  great  de- 
sire then  was  to  write  a  play  in  collaboration  with  my  brother. 

"  In  1851  or  1852  he  had  the  idea  of  a  play  founded  on  Peg  Woffington, 
and  I  have  the  authority  of  my  brother's  assertion,  often  repeated  in  my 
own  hearing,  and  that  of  others,  who  can  corroborate  me,  that  when 
Charles  Reade  came  to  him  on  the  subject,  he  had  one  character,  and  a 
bit  of  one  scene,  together  with  some  vague,  crude  ideas  how  the  play  was 
to  be  worked  into  shape. 

"  In  August,  1851,  my  mother,  brother,  and  others  of  my  family  went  to 
live  at  Chiswick,  and  it  was  there  that  the  play  of  'Masks  and  Faces '  was 
written,  not  entirely,  but  mainly  in  the  form  in  which  it  was  first  acted. 

♦'It  was  first  played  at  the  Haymarket  in  November,  1852.  I  conclude, 
therefore,  that  the  play  must  have  been  written  at  Chiswick,  in  the  sum- 
mer or  autumn  of  that  year. 


Mrs.  Seymour.  191 

"June  10. — I  have  consented  to  let  'Masks  and  Faces' 
be  brought  out  altered  to  please  Webster,  who  is  not  so 
good  a  writer  as  an  actor. 

"Anyway,  Charles  Reade  was  our  guest  at  Chiswick  Lodge,  and  the 
method  of  writing  the  play  was  this,  that  during  the  day  (my  brother  being 
in  town  at  his  office)  Charles  Reade  wrote  long  passages,  which  were  as 
ruthlessly  cut  to  pieces  or  rejected  at  night  by  my  brother,  when  they  sat 
down  together  to  put  together  and  complete  their  worlc.  And  morning 
after  morning,  as  I  well  remember,  when  we  were  at  breakfast,  Charles 
Reade  used,  half  in  sorrow,  half  in  fun,  to  say  to  my  mother, '  There,  Mrs. 
Taylor,  my  gentleman  has  been  at  his  old  game.  He  has  cut  out  every  line 
of  that  dialogue,  and  all  those  sentiments  jou  so  much  admired  when  I 
read  them  to  you  yesterday  afternoon.' 

"  In  this  way  the  writing  of  the  play  went  on  till  its  completion  in  three 
acts.  Among  my  brother's  MSS.  I  have  found  a  fair  copy,  made  by  my- 
self for  the  authors,  of  an  act  No.  1.  In  this  fair  copy,  corrected  subse- 
quently in  my  brother's  handwriting,  as  the  MS.  shows,  there  is  a  great 
deal  wiioUy  omitted  from  the  play  as  acted,  but  a  great  deal  which  was 
subsequently  introduced  by  Charles  Reade  into  his  one-volume  novel  of 
'  Peg  Woffington.' 

"Then  followed  further  alterations.  Very  much  to  Charles  Readc's 
vexation,  and  contrary  to  all  his  ideas  and  wishes,  the  play  was  cut  down 
by  my  brother  to  two  acts,  and  worked  by  him  into  the  shape  in  which  it 
was  finally  acted  at  the  HaymarkeL 

"  I  have  abundant  proofs  in  letters  of  Charles  Reade,  written  to  my 
brother  in  1852,  how  much  this  change  went  against  the  grain  with  him. 
He  even  objects  to  certain  minor  characters,  and  the  names  they  bear. 
Further,  these  letters  contain  repeated  evidence  that  Charles  Reade  then 
fully  recognized  the  difference  between  himself,  an  unknown  author,  and  a 
successful  dramatist  like  my  brother. 

"  The  latter,  however,  was  never  slow  to  do  the  fullest  justice  to  a  fellow- 
workman.  And,  often  as  I  have  heard  him  mention  the  one  character  and 
part  of  one  scene  already  alluded  to,  I  always  heard  him  add,  'But  the 
beginning  of  the  second  act,  the  scene  in  ihc  garret  between  Peg  Woffing- 
ton and  Triplet  and  his  family — the  best,  I  think,  in  the  whole  play — was 
entirely  Charles  Reade's.' 

" '  Masks  and  Faces '  proving  a  great  success,  Charles  Reade  then,  with- 


102  Memoir  of  Charles  lleade. 

"  Taylor  has  been  talking  to  me  of  the  labor  of  collab- 
oration. I  told  him  labor  is  the  condition  of  all  excel- 
lence.    Results,  not  processes,  are  to  be  regarded.    I  only 

out  so  much  ns  naming  liis  intention  to  my  brother,  produced  the  one- 
volume  novel  of  '  Peg  WoflSngton.' 

"This  naturally  set  people  asking  whether  the  plaj  of  *  Masks  and 
Faces '  or  the  novel  of  '  Peg  Woifington '  was  written  first  ?  If  the  latter, 
all  the  credit  of  originality  rested  with  Charles  Reade,  and  Tom  Taylor  had 
merely  been  asked  to  use  his  experience  as  a  playwright,  and  throw  the 
story  into  dramatic  form. 

"My  brother  having  remonstrated  with  Charles  Reade  on  the  line  he 
had  taken,  the  latter  then  prefixed  to  the  novel  the  dedication,  dated 
December  15th,  1852:  'To  Tom  Taylor,  my  friend  and  coadjutor  in  the 
comedy  of  "  Masks  and  Faces,"  to  whom  the  reader  owes  much  of  the  best 
matter  of  this  tale.' 

"  I  find  the  same  dedication  repeated  in  a  new  edition  of  '  Peg  WofEng- 
ton,'  published  in  1857. 

"  I  thought,  and  still  think,  and  said  so  at  the  time  to  my  brother,  that 
the  language  of  the  dedication  was  not  adequate  to  the  circumstances  and 
the  facts. 

"His  answer,  as  far  as  I  can  recall  it,  was, '  Reade's  a  queer  fellow,  with 
odd  notions  about  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  things,  and  Pni  quite  willing 
to  let  the  whole  thing  pass  and  be  forgotten.' 

"  But  the  matter  left,  I  think,  a  soreness  on  both  sides,  for  it  was  not 
until  April,  1854,  that  their  second  play,  'Two  Loves  and  a  Life,'  was  pro- 
duced at  the  Adelphi,  and  their  third,  'The  King's  Rival,'  at  the  St.  James, 
in  October  of  the  same  year. 

"Shortly  after  the  production  of  'Masks  and  Faces,'  Charles  Reade 
produced  a  play,  all  his  own,  '  Gold,'  which  I  well  remember  seeing  at 
Drury  Lane. 

"  It  is  only  necessary  to  recall  that  immature  production  to  be  convinced 
that  the  hand  that  wrote  it  was  incapable  of  the  terse,  sparkling,  and  pol- 
ished finish  of  '  Masks  and  Faces.' 

"  The  play,  as  first  produced,  was,  as  every  one  knows,  an  immense  suc- 
cess. It  may  therefore  be  inferred  that  the  cutting  down  the  three  acts 
to  two,  the  changes  in  the  scenes  and  incidents,  the  cutting  out  of  some 
and  the  insertion  of  other  minor  characters,  all  done  by  Tom  Taylor, 


Mrs.  Seymour.  193 

wish  I  could  reduce  collaboration  to  a  science,  that  is 
all. 

"  I  could  write  twelve  halves  of  three-act  plays  in  a 
year,  writing  only  between  breakfast  and  luncheon ;  but  I 
could  not  write  six  plays  without  hurting  my  brain. 

"July  15,  Durham. — Made  acquaintance  here  with  a 
charming,  clever  woman,  beautiful  as  the  dawn,  and  madly 
in  love  with  a  man  hideous  as  midnight,  and  not  one  idea 
in  his  skull.  There  are  such  women,  full  of  talent,  yet 
next  door  to  idiots.  Miss  Chaworth  utterly  despised  Lord 
Byron,  and  venerated  a  brainless  boor,  a  snob,  a  beast,  who 
leathered  her  with  his  riding- whip. 

"  It  was  not  that  she  liked  Jack,  and  admired  George 
but  objected  to  his  person.  She  respected  the  Beast  and 
despised  the  Man. 

"July  20. — I  have  written  three  copy-books  of  'Peg 
Woffington,'  a  novel.  I  hope  to  make  a  decent  three- 
volume  novel  of  it;  but  whether  any  one  will  publish  it  is 
another  question.  If  not  now,  perhaps  in  three  years'  time. 
Literature  no  doubt  is  a  close  borough. 

against  Charles  Reade's  wish  or  consent,  as  his  own  letters  show,  had 
much  to  do  with  the  success  of  the  play  during  its  run  at  the  Haymarket 
in  1852,  and  subsequently  at  the  Adelphi. 

"I  therefore  sum  up  my  narrative  of  what  is  within  my  own  knowledge 
by  saying  that  I  believe  Mrs.  Seymour  had  no  acquaintance  with  Charles 
Reade  when  '  Masks  and  Faces '  was  written  by  him  and  Tom  Taylor.        )'. 

"  That  the  idea  of  making  Peg  Woffington  the  heroine  of  a  play  was  ex- 
clusively Charles  Reade's ;  that  the  shaping  of  the  play  into  the  form  in 
which  it  was  finally  produced  was  Tom  Taylor's.  But  that  the  credit  of 
the  play  should  be  equally  divided  between  the  two  authors,  as  each 
brought  to  the  work  qualities  and  powers  peculiarly  his  own,  the  ultimate 
result  being  the  production  of  certainly  one  of  the  very  best  and  finished 
comedies  of  modern  times.  Arnold  Taylor. 

"SuRBiTON  Hill,  Oct.  U,  1836.'* 
9 


194  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

"I  am  in  love  with  Peg  WoflSngton.  She  is  dead,  and 
can't  sting  me.  I  love  her,  and  I  hope  to  make  many  love 
her. 

"August  3,  Durham.  —  My  life  is  very  monotonous. 
Nothing  but  old  people  here  now.  No  sympathy  with  my 
pursuits.  I  am  a  most  unhappy  artist,  to  have  no  public 
and  no  domestic  circle.  Praise  and  sympathy  are  the 
breath  of  our  nostrils.  It  is  not  all  vanity.  More  than 
other  people  we  are  here  for  the  sake  of  others,  and  it  is 
crushing  when  no  one  cares  for  what  we  do.  My  friends 
have  good  understandings  and  are  great  readers,  yet  no 
one  of  them  has  ever  expressed  the  least  curiosity  as  to 
what  I  write.  Yet  they  have  the  impudence  to  bring  me 
trash  to  read  in  MS.,  in  which  a  stiff,  barren,  conventional 
set  of  incidents  are  Hung  like  blots  upon  paper,  and  gar- 
nished round  with  texts  of  Scripture  and  endless  reflec- 
tions. ' 

"  Wait  till  I  get  to  London,  and  organize  a  little  society 
of  painters,  actors,  and  writers,  all  lovers  of  truth,  and 
sworn  to  stand  or  fall  together.  Why.  not'a  Truth  Com- 
pany as  well  as  a  Gala  Company  ? — Vun  mmt  Men  V autre. 
Now  I  think  of  it,  there  is,  I  believe,  a  company  and  a 
steam-engine  for  everything  but  truth. 

"I  have  finished  my  novel,  'Peg  Woffington ;'  I  don't 
know  whether  it  is  good  or  not.  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had 
a  housekeeper  like  Molicire.  No.  man  can  judge  his  own 
work.  I  hope  now  to  work  out  my  forte,  criticism.  But 
how  purposeless,  hopeless,  and  languid  I  feel.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  know  that  if  I  don't  do  something  soon, 
some  still  more  ignorant  ape  will  fly  the  subject  before 
the  public,  and  take  the  bread  out  of  my  mouth.  It  is 
horrible  how  an  idea  never  occurs  to  a  single  person,  al- 
ways to  three.    It  is  a  feature  of  the  day. 


Mrs.  Seymour.  195 

"August  10. — I  have  sketched  the  plot  of  an  original 
drama ;  I  am  studying  for  it  a  little.  One  of  my  char- 
acters is  to  be  a  thief.  I  have  the  entree  of  Durham  Gaol, 
and  I  am  studying  thieves.  I  have  got  lots  of  their  let- 
ters, and  one  or  two  autobiographies  from  the  chaplain. 
But  the  other  subject,  the  gold-diggings,  makes  me  very 
uneasy.  I  feel  my  lack  of  facts  at  every  turn.  On  the 
subject  I  wish  I  had  some  one  I  could  consult ;  but  it  is 
utter  solitude  here.     I  have  no  friend,  no  acquaintance 

that  knows 

Sound       from  Noise, 

Bombast   from  Sublime, 

Beauty      from  the  Beast, 

Smell         from  Stink, 

or 

II  from  II." 

The  next  few  sentences  in  the  diary,  at  different  dates, 
may  strike  the  reader  as  being  a  little  hysterical.  They 
lead  up,  however,  to  a  paragraph  which  may  be  termed  a 
revelation  of  the  method  of  novel -manufacture  which 
Charles  Reade  invented.  Few,  if  indeed  any,  among  those 
who  achieved  literary  fame  have  set  themselves  a  task  so 
laborious,  and  one  necessitating  such  conscientious  self- 
sacrifice.  It  was  to  the  faithful  following  of  this  same 
hard  rule  that  he  was  indebted  for  the  magnificent  success 
of  "  It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend,"  a  work  which,  in  ex- 
tent of  circulation,  rivalled  that  of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin," 
and  elevated  its  author  at  once  to  the  first  rank  of  novel- 
ists, lie  had  already  laid  the  foundation  of  his  future 
reputation  in  "  Peg  Wofiington,"  the  drama  of  "  Masks 
and  Faces  "  in  novel  form.  He  was  preparing  to  follow 
it  up  by  "  Christie  Johnstone,"  a  book  based  on  his  own 
herring  -  fishery  adventures.     But  these  two  were  mere 


196  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

genre  pictures.  His  chef  d^oeuvre  was  impending,  and 
here,  in  these  rough  notes,  he  narrates  how  it  was  com- 
posed. It  was  a  double  drama,  so  to  speak,  the  first  part 
having  for  its  moral  the  cruel  Nemesis  of  society  on  moral 
error;  the  second  the  auri  sacra  fames,  which  at  the  mo- 
ment invested  the  Australian  diggings  with  so  weird  an 
interest.  He  here  narrates  how  ho  actually  collected  ma- 
terial for  the  former,  how  he  proposed  to  obtain  it  for  the 
latter. 

"Sept,  27,  Magd.  Col.,  Oxford. — Have  nearly  finished 
a  great  original  play,  a  drama  in  four  acts,  containing  the 
matter  and  characters  that  go  to  a  five-act  piece.  I  sup- 
pose I  must  go  to  London  to  push  it. 

"Mem. — Not  to  let  it  go  out  of  my  hands.  Not  to 
trust  it  in  any  theatre,  because  there  are  plenty  of  black- 
guards about,  and  any  fool  could  write  a  play  that  would 
go  down  upon  this  subject.  I  am  glad  in  one  way  of  hav- 
ing written  this  play.  I  want  to  show  people  that,  though 
I  adapt  French  pieces,  I  can  invent  too,  if  I  choose  to 
take  the  trouble.     And  it  is  a  trouble  to  me,  I  confess. 

"  I  am  divided  about  my  plans.  I  think  I  have  only 
two  talents  —  dramatic  and  critical.  Of  these,  the  best 
policy  seems  to  be  to  try  the  first,  and  make  it  lead  to  the 
second.  I  shall  need  much  encouragement  and  sympathy  to 
support  me  under  the  struggle.    Where  to  find  it — them  ? 

"  The  head  of  this  society  enters  on  his  98th  year  to-day. 

"  Oct.  23,  London. — Charles  Reade  in  account  with  liter- 
ature— 

Dr.  £  s.        d.  Or. 

Pens,  Paper,  Ink, 

Copying,  11    11    0         0 

Brains,  4000    0   0 

4011    11    0 


Mrs.  Seymour.  197 

"  List  of  my  unacted  plays:  1.  ' The  Way  Things  Turn.' 
2.  *  Peregrine  Pickle.'  3.  'Marguerite.'  4.  '  Honor  before 
Title.'  6.  '  Masks  and  Faces.'  6.  '  Gold.'  1.  '  Nance  Old- 
field.'  8. '  The  Dangerous  Path.'  9. '  The  Hypochondriac' 
10.  'Fish,  Flesh,  and  Good  Red  Herring.'  11.  'Rachel 
the  Reaper.'  *  I  don't  remember  the  rest.  I  am  a  little 
soured,  and  no  wonder. 

"  Just  had  a  civil  note  from  Kean,  inviting  me  to  read 
my  drama  to  him.  This  is  the  first  bright  speck  in  my 
present  destiny. 

"June  14,  1853,  Magd.  Coll. — My  capacity  for  labor 
seems  wonderfully  faint.  I  have  scarcely  written  a  page 
since  '  Christie  J.'  Still,  I  ought  to  make  a  great  hit  with 
my  drama  *  Gold.'  The  very  first  work  on  modern  Juda- 
ism I  took  up  showed  me  just  what  I  had  calculated  on 
in  coming  here,  that  the  Jews  are  a  people  of  whom  we 
know  nothing,  and  who  know  nothing  about  the  Christian 
religion.  Here  is  one  of  those  rich  veins  with  which  a 
hit  is  to  be  made.  If  I  had  but  patience  to  read,  I  could 
write  the  subject,  I  know,  when  I  had  the  facts.  Mem. 
If  ever  I  write  a  novel  on  '  Gold,'  introduce  a  Jew  and  a 
learned  Divine  (Chaplain  of  Tom  Robinson's  gaol),  who 
meet  with  a  holy  horror  of  each  other,  battle,  argue,  find 
they  were  both  in  the  dark  as  respects  each  other,  and 
that  all  supposed  monsters  are  men — no  more,  no  less. 

"June  17,  1853. — Busy  correcting  proofs  of  'Christie 
Johnstone.'  Fear  there  is  an  excess  of  dialogue  in  it. 
I  think  I  ought  to  throw  some  of  that  into  narrative. 
Mrs.  Seymour  thinks  there  is  too  much  criticism  in  it.  I 
have  no  doubt  there  is.     These  are  defects  to  me  which 

*  "Dec,  1852. — 'Masks  and  Faces'  has  been  pretty  successful  Am 
now  writing  a  Scotch  story,  and  Bentley  offers  to  publish  on  the  same 
terms  as  '  Peg  WoflSngton.' " 


198  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

judgment  cannot  correct.  I  lack  the  true  oil  of  Fiction, 
and  I  fear  she  will  have  to  inspire  me,  as  well  as  reform 
me.  The  drowned  fisherman's  scene  was  admired  by 
Kinglake  and  by  Tennyson  ;  but  I  feel  how  much  more 
a  thorough-bred  narrator  would  have  made  of  it. 

"June  20. — The  plan  I  propose  to  myself  in  writing 
Btories  will,  I  see,  cost  me  undeniable  labor.  I  propose 
never  to  guess  where  I  can  know.  For  instance,  Tom 
Robinson  is  in  gaol.  I  have  therefore  been  to  Oxford 
Gaol  and  visited  every  inch,  and  shall  do  the  same  at 
Reading.  Having  also  collected  material  in  Durham 
Gaol,  whatever  I  write  about  Tom  Robinson's  gaol  will 
therefore  carry  (I  hope)  a  physical  exterior  of  truth. 

"  George  Fielding  is  going  in  a  ship  to  Australia.  I 
know  next  to  nothing  about  a  ship,  but  my  brother  Bill 
is  a  sailor.  I  have  commissioned  him  to  describe,  as  he 
would  to  an  intelligent  child,  a  ship  sailing  with  the  wind 
on  her  beam — then  a  lull — a  change  of  wind  to  dead  aft, 
and  the  process  of  making  all  sail  upon  a  ship  under  that 
favorable  circumstance. 

"Simple  as  this  is,  it  has  never  been  done  in  human 
writing  so  as  to  be  intelligible  to  landsmen. 

"  One  of  my  characters  is  a  Jew — an  Oriental  Jew.  It 
will  be  his  fate  to  fall  into  argument  not  only  with  Susan 
Merton,  but  with  the  Chaplain  of  my  gaol.  It  will  be  my 
business  to  show  what  is  in  the  head  and  in  the  heart  of 
a  modern  Jew.  This  entails  the  reading  of  at  least  eight 
considerable  volumes  ;  but  those  eight  volumes  read  will 
make  my  Jew  a  Truth,  please  God,  instead  of  a  Lie. 

"My  story  must  cross  the  water  to  Australia,  and 
plunge  after  that  into  a  gold  mine.  To  be  consistent 
with  myself,  I  ought  to  cross-examine  at  the  very  least  a 
dozen  men  that  have  farmed,  dug,  or  robbed  in  that  land. 


Mrs.  Seymour.  199 

If  I  can  get  hold  of  two  or  three  that  have  really  been  in 
it,  I  think  I  could  win  the  public  ear  by  these  means. 
Failing  these  I  must  read  books  and  letters,  and  do  the 
best  I  can.  Such  is  the  mechanism  of  a  novel  by  Charles 
Reade.  I  know  my  system  is  right ;  but  unfortunately 
there  are  few  men  so  little  fitted  as  myself  to  work  this 
system.  A  great  capacity  for  labor  is  the  first  essential. 
Now  I  have  a  singularly  small  capacity  for  acquisitive 
labor.  A  patient,  indomitable  spirit  the  second.  Here  I 
fail  miserably.  A  stout  heart  the  third.  My  heart  is 
womanish.  A  vast  memory  the  fourth.  My  memory  is 
not  worth  a  dump. 

"Now,  I  know  exactly  what  I  am  worth.  If  I  can 
work  the  above  great  system,  there  is  enough  of  me  to 
make  one  of  the  writers  of  the  day  ;  without  it,  no,  no. 
"June  21,  M.  C. — To-day  I  sat  out  upon  the  lawn 
and  scribbled  six  hours.  There  are  about* six  days  in 
every  English  summer  that  one  can  write  out  of  doors 
without  the  paper  being  blown  away  and  writer  drenched. 
This  was  one.     It  ended  in  thunder  and  rain. 

"  June  24. — That  humbug  J.  Avants  to  cheat  me  out  of 
my  due,  under  cover  of  his  leading  actress.  Have  told 
him  I  will  sue  him.  Think  I  shall  tell  her  so  too.  A  good 
thundering  quarrel  would  stir  me  up  out  of  this  wretch- 
ed state  of  stagnation,  and  I'm  just  in  the  humor,  ready 
for  all  the  world  (except  one),  like  a  porcupine  in  cold 
weather. 

"June  29,  Reading. — That  wretch  Bentley  has  not 
sent  me  the  revised  proofs  of  '  Christie  Johnstone,'  and  I 
wanted  to  give  the  book  to  my  mother  on  her  birthday 
(July  '7).  She  will  be  eighty,  yet  she  went  yesterday  ten 
miles  in  a  fly,  and  wandered  about  the  woods  in  a  pony- 
gig  besides. 


900  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

"July  8,  Magd.  Coll.  —  Spent  several  hours  in  Read- 
ing Gaol  yesterday.     I  hope  that  tree  will  bear  fruits. 

"  There  was  one  gaol-bird  reading  the  Bible  in  Hebrew. 

"July  10. — Went  to  hear  the  assize  sermon  and  see  the 
judges.  Awful  to  behold.  Going  to  the  criminal  court 
to-morrow.  I  made  myself  cry  to-day  writing  a  bit  of 
my  story,  *  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend.*  Is  that  a  good  sign  ? 
Laura  Seymour  says  I  have  pathos.  I  suspect  I  shall  be 
the  only  one  to  snivel. 

"  July  17. — Went  to-day  to  the  chapel  of  Reading  Gaol. 
There  I  heard  and  saw  a  parson  drone  the  liturgy,  and 
hum  a  commonplace  dry-as-dust  discourse  to  two  hundred 
great  culprits  and  beginners. 

"  Most  of  those  men's  lives  have  been  full  of  stirring 
and  thrilling  adventures.  They  are  now  by  the  mighty 
force  of  a  system  arrested  in  their  course,  and  for  two 
whole  hour^  to-day  were  chained  under  a  pump,  wh'ch 
ought  to  pump  words  of  fire  into  their  souls;  but  this 
pump  of  a  parson  could  not  do  his  small  share — so  easy 
compared  with  what  the  police  and  others  had  done  in 
tracking  and  nabbing  these  two  hundred  foxes  one  at  a 
time.    No,  the  clerical  pump  could  not  pump,  or  would  not. 

"  He  droned  away  as  if  he  had  been  in  a  country  parish 
church.  He  attacked  the  diflScult  souls  with  a  buzz  of 
conventional  commonplaces,  that  have  come  down  from 
book  of  sermons  to  book  of  sermons  for  the  last  century ; 
but  never  in  that  century  knocked  at  the  door  of  a  man 
in  passing — nor  ever  will. 

'"  The  beetle's  drowsy  hum  !  ! ! 

"  Well,  I'm  not  a  parson  ;  but  I'll  write  one,  and  say  a 
few  words  in  my  quiet,  temperate  way  about  this  sort  of 
thing. 

"  But  la !  it  doesn't  become  me  to  complain  of  others. 


Mrs.  Seymour.  201 

Look  at  myself.     Can't  write  *  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend,' 
which  is  my  business. 

"Aiig.  22,  London.  —  Tom  Taylor  has  made  me  over 
his  chambers.  They  are  in  a  healthier  part  than  Covent 
Garden,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  could  set  to  work.  My  plans : 
I  will  work  hard  at  my  tale  of  '  Gold,'  whether  under  that 
title  or  another.  I  will  hunt  up  two  men  who  have  lived 
in  Australia,  and  are  very  communicative  ;  from  them  I 
will  get  real  warm  facts.  I  will  visit  all  the  London  pris- 
ons, and  get  warm  facts  from  them  for  the  Robinson 
business.  I  will  finish  the  *  Box  Tunnel '  for  Bentley's 
Miscellany.  I  will  write  plays  with  Tom  Taylor — his  ex- 
uberance makes  it  easy.  I  will  prepare  for  publication  a 
series  of  stories  under  one  title.  I  will  play  steadily  for 
hits.  I  will  not  be  worse  than  the  public — or  not  too 
much  so.  I  will  write  better  than  'Christie  Johnstone.' 
The  story  there  is  dry  and  husky.  I  will  live  moderate- 
ly. I  will  take  decisive  measures  for  being  out  of  bed  at 
eight." 
9* 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

VICE-PKESIDENT. 

Thb  year  1851  brought  Charles  Reade  to  Oxford.  It 
was  his  turn  to  act  as  Vice-President,  and  there  were 
many  reasons  why  he  should  hesitate  before  declining 
that  honorable  post.  First,  it  would  add  at  least  £100  to 
his  pocket-money,  besides  diminishing  the  cost  of  living 
to  a  merely  nominal  sum.  Secondly,  he  would  have  a 
Demyship  to  give  to  one  of  his  nephews.  And  thirdly, 
the  year  was  one  of  critical  importance  both  to  the  col- 
lege and  its  individual  Fellows.  Lord  John  Russell's  Com- 
mission had  descended  on  Magdalen  like  the  wolf  on  the 
fold,  and  though  President  Routh  sent  a  defiant  reply 
to  the  Queen's  Commissioners,  to  the  effect  that  he  de- 
clined to  render  an  account  of  revenues  he  was  not  con- 
scious of  having  misused,  the  sober  spirits  of  the  college 
recognized  the  advisability  of  coming  to  terms  with  the 
enemy.  There  was  a  general  desire  that  Charles  Reade 
should  act  as  their  second  in  command,  for  poor  old  Dr. 
Routh,  verging  on  a  hundred,  was  an  embarrassment  rath- 
er than  a  bulwark. 

In  fine,  Charles  Reade  yielded  to  the  request  of  his 
family  and  his  college,  and  "at  the  end  of  all  things" — 
alias  Feb.  2. — assumed  the  functions  of  Vice-President 
for  a  twelvemonth. 

He  rendered  signal  service  to  the  college.  The  Com- 
missioners were  anxious  to  convert  the  Fellows  into  sti- 


Vice-President  203 

pendiaries,  at  fixed  salaries,  in  order  tliat  the  balance  of 
revenue  might  be  available  for  educational  and  profes- 
sorial objects.  Some  of  the  Fellows  rather  favored  this 
project.  But  Charles  Reade  warned  them  that  by  so 
doing  they  would  cease  to  be  masters  in  their  own  house, 
and  that  the  control  of  their  vast  estates  would  virtually 
pass  from  them.  The  contest  between  the  College  and 
their  Parliamentary  inquisitors  raged  during  his  year  of 
office,  and  continued  afterwards  for  several  years. 

Three  nephews  were  eligible  for  the  Demyship  in  Charles 
Reade's  nomination.  He  selected  the  fittest  in  every  way, 
the  son  of  his  beautiful  and  brilliant  sister  Julia,  Allen 
Gardiner  the  younger,  who  fully  justified  his  uncle's  pat- 
ronage by  a  first-class  in  the  schools,  and  a  subsequent 
career  of  heroic  devotion  as  a  missionary  in  Chili.* 

*  Young  Allen  Gardiner  had  barely  settled  in  college  as  Demy,  when 
in  the  middle  of  term  the  papers  devoted  several  columns  to  the  harrow- 
ing account  of  the  death  of  his  father,  Captain  Allen  F.  Gardiner,  R.N., 
on  the  coast  of  Tierra  del  Fuego  by  starvation — he  attempted  to  obtain  a 
settlement  on  the  mainland  for  missionary  purposes,  but  owing  to  some 
inexplicable  bungling  the  provisions  which  were  to  have  been  forwarded 
to  him  and  his  crew  never  reached  them.  It  was  the  habit  of  his  son,  the 
young  Demy,  immediately  after  morning  chapel,  to  retire  to  his  rooms,  and 
read  a  chapter  of  the  Bible.  This  voluntary  act  of  devotion  saved  him  % 
rude  shock.  The  terrible  news  had  been  communicated  to  the  press,  and 
not  to  the  martyred  sailor's  family ;  hence,  Allen  Gardiner  was  in  happy 
ignorance  of  his  noble  father's  tragic  end.  His  friends  in  the  Junior 
Common  Room  chanced  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  awful  news,  and  at  once 
removed  all  newspapers  from  the  room,  so  that  when  Allen  Gardiner  en- 
tered it  to  breakfast,  he  was  spared  a  sudden  blow.  In  the  interim  they 
hurried  to  Mr.  R,  F.  Ilcssey,  the  junior  tutor,  who  undertook  to  break  the 
news  to  his  promising  pupil,  and  did  so  with  the  delicacy  and  tact  of  a 
scholar  and  a  gentleman.  The  brave  fellow  bore  up  against  this  crushing 
misfortune ;  but  then  and  there  registered  a  vow  that  his  father  should 
not  have  died  in  vain,  a  tow  kept  with  fidelity.     lie  founded  no  less  than 


204  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

Magdalen  was  for  many  years  Charles  Reade's  hardest 
workshop.  Whenever  he  was  behindhand  to  any  serious 
extent  with  his  copy,  John  Brooker,  his  faithful  servant, 
received  a  wire  that  his  master  was  already  en  route  from 
Paddington,  and  a  braised  shoulder  of  lamb,  or  mutton, 
with  a  tart  to  follow,  was  ordered  for  3  p.m.,  the  author's* 
normal  dinner-hour.  The  rooms  he  occupied  in  No.  2  New 
Buildings  were  scantily  furnished,  MSS.  and  books  litter- 
ing in  heaps  on  the  floor,  the  walls  being  decorated  with 
looking-glasses  instead  of  pictures.  During  his  year  of 
Vice-Presidency  he  labored  unremittingly  with  his  pen, 
receiving  the  formal  visits  of  members  of  the  college 
with  Bohemian  informality  in  his  shirt -sleeves,  and  not 
quite  earning  the  appreciation  of  his  brother  Fellows  by 
neglecting  their  high  table  and  senior  common  room.  Yet 
such  was  the  natural  dignity  of  the  man,  that  in  no  one 
instance  had  he  to  encounter  familiarity  or  disrespect.  If 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  if  seated  in  the  centre  of  a  chaos  of 
paper  and  ink;  if  again  so  absent  that  sometimes  he  omitted 
to  answer  a  direct  question,  he  none  the  less  held  his  own. 
His  manner  was  far  from  slovenly,  neither  in  truth  was 
his  dress,  which  erred  in  being  rather  outre.  He  shaved 
in  those  days  punctiliously,  and  his  linen  was  faultless.  It 
was  impossible  for  the  most  self-assertive  to  take  a  liberty 
with  him;  and  when,  on  an  occasion,  a  tradesman,  whose 
bill  had  remained  in  abeyance  for  some  years,  thought  fit 
to  relieve  his  pent-up  feelings  at  the  expense  of  those  of 
the  Vice-President,  he  repented  his  temerity.  There  never 
was  a  Vice-President  quite  of  the  same  pattern  before 
him,  nor  will  be  after  him.    Enough,  that  there  have  been 

seventeen  congregations  on  the  seaboard  of  Chili,  and  only  retired  from 
that  sphere  of  work — pre-eminently  his  own — when  he  was  passed  over  for 
the  Bishopric  of  the  Falklands. 


Vice-President.  205 

many  his  inferiors,  and  none  altogether  his  equal,  even  in 
the  art  of  ruling  a  college  so  as  to  insure  discipline  with- 
out making  matters  disagreeable  all  round. 

In  this  same  year  he  contrived  to  enact  the  parts  of 
diplomatist  and  don,  playwright  and  novelist,  with  a  cool 
and  clear  head.  He  was,  moreover,  still  young  enough  to 
relish  the  cricket  field  and  the  river,  and  to  shoot  over  the 
college  estate  at  Tubney.  Never  during  his  fifty  years  of 
Fellowship  was  he  on  more  cordial  terms  with  the  society; 
perhaps  because  they  began  to  perceive  his  merit,  and 
were  wise  enough  to  court  the  rising  sun.  He  revived 
archery,  bowls,  and  skittles  within  the  college  walls,  and 
would  spend  the  hours  of  the  morning,  when  the  men  were 
undergoing  the  prolonged  torture  of  the  lecture-room,  in 
pacing  the  entire  length  of  the  New  Buildings,  not  under 
cover  of  the  cloister,  but  on  the  grass-plat,  between  the 
New  and  Founder's  Buildings.  Oddly  enough,  he  seldom 
affected  Addison's  "Walk,  but  would  tramp  with  a  rapid 
shuffling  step  to  and  from  the  sunk  fence  of  The  Grove  to 
the  edge  of  the  Cherwell,  in  utter  oblivion  of  the  scouts 
and  others  who  constantly  crossed  his  path.  So  far  as  can 
be  judged,  his  plan  was  to  think  out  a  scene,  and  while 
thought  was  still  hot  and  fresh  in  his  memory,  to  dash  up- 
stairs, and  commit  it  to  MS.  with  a  rapidity  that  rendered 
his  copy  decipherable  by  himself  only,  and  his  faithful 
copyist,  one  Saunders.  He  certainly  resented  bitterly  any 
interruption  of  his  reveries;  and  when  a  member  of  the 
college,  however  senior  he  might  be,  elected  to  stop  his 
progress  and  essay  to  inveigle  him  in  gossip,  the  chances 
were  that  he  met  with  a  cool,  if  not  a  rude,  reception. 

Oxford,  moreover,  was  an  unexceptionable  place  for 
study.  The  Bodleian  Library,  with  its  ready  and  civil 
attendants,  the  splendid  modem  library  of   the  Union 


«06  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

Society,  and  the  College  Library,  all  gave  him  literary 
material.  Eschewing  Chapel  and  Hall,  and  combining,  as 
we  have  endeavored  to  show,  for  the  most  part  work  and 
exercise,  he  covered  a  very  wide  field  in  a  very  short 
time;  for  he  was  never  idle,  and  to  stimulate  his  brain 
drank  strong  tea  at  intervals  from  his  three  o'clock  dinner 
till  he  retired  to  bed.  It  was  the  life  of  an  individual,  not 
of  a  gregarious  human  being;  of  one,  moreover,  who  con- 
ceived himself  to  be  isolated  in  his  academic  home.  Of 
all  the  Fellows  then  in  residence.  Dr.  Bloxam,  a  gentleman 
who  labored  incessantly  in  the  domain  of  antiquarian  re- 
search, alone  inspired  him  with  interest. 

Not  that  he  ever  possessed  the  slightest  affinity  with 
mediaevalism,  as  such.  To  the  past  he  looked  as  to  a 
mine,  rich  in  dramatic  material,  and  hence  perhaps  recog- 
nized in  the  antiquarian  a  man  to  supply  him,  if  needful, 
with  suitable  stage  accessories.  It  may  seem  very  busi- 
ness-like to  regard  history  as  a  collection  of  unrehearsed 
tragedies  and  comedies;  yet  so  devoted  was  Charles  Reade 
to  his  art,  that  although  he  hated  horrors  constitutionally 
and  had  fainted  at  the  sight  of  blood,  he  blasphemed  his 
evil-fortune  piteously  because  he  arrived  on  the  scene  of 
an  accident  five  minutes  too  late.  It  was  the  Commemora- 
tion, and  he  was  strolling  back  from  Iffley  with  his  neph- 
ews, when  he  remarked  a  huge  pool  of  blood  on  the  tow- 
path.  The  Exeter  College  barge,  returning  from  Nuneham 
with  a  picnic-party,  had  been  driven  by  a  man  who  neg- 
lected to  spare  his  beast.  The  horse  waited  till  the  rope 
was  loosed,  and  then  in  revenge  lashed  out  on  his  tormentor 
with  his  hind-feet,  and,  catching  the  poor  wretch  full  on 
the  temples,  killed  him  then  and  there. 

His  nephews  remonstrated  with  this  strange  mood  of 
his ;   whereupon  he  rejoined,  "  Segnius  irritant  animos 


Vice-President.       '  20Y 

demissa  per  aures  quam  qum  sicut  oculis  sul^ecta  Jideli- 

"  But,"  they  replied,  "  the  sickening  horror  of  the  scene!" 
"  11  faut  souffrir  pour  etre  belle,''''  was  his  apology. 
It  was  characteristic  of  Charles  Reade's  intense  thor- 
oughness that  he  never  went  to  books  for  material,  except 
when  he  could  not  obtain  it  from  his  own,  or  other's,  ex- 
perience. His  strongest  scenes  were  those  which  he  Avas 
able  to  construct  out  of  phenomena  of  his  own  observa- 
tion; and  next,  those  which  he  threshed  out  by  conver- 
sations with  men  who  had  actually  witnessed  them.  His 
motto  was,  that  you  could  not  be  too  truthful,  provided 
always  that  you  could  escape  the  error  of  verbosity.  It 
was  with  the  design  of  gaining  impressions,  to  be  repro- 
duced dramatically,  that  he  roamed  from  jail  to  jail,  and 
strove  to  gain  the  confidence  of  jail-birds.  Such  an  exer- 
cise must,  notwithstanding,  have  been  to  him  as  peniten- 
tial as  the  spectacle  of  a  fatal  accident  would  have  been 
harrowing  to  his  feelings,  for  he  was  naturally,  under  a 
chilly  and  reserved  exterior,  one  of  the  softest-hearted  of 
his  sex.  Yet  he  knew,  as  by  prescience,  that  the  stage 
and  dramatic  narration  were  both  destined  to  advance 
from  the  artificiality  of  contemporary  novelists  —  whose 
characters  were  fantoccini  and  whose  plots  dragged  even 
when  they  did  not  drivel — towards  accurate  realism.  True, 
he  differed  from  the  most  philosophical  of  accurate  real- 
ists in  his  passion  for  dramatic  situations,  even  when  they 
transgressed  by  sensationalism.  But  his  ideal  was  closer 
to  that  of  George  Eliot  than  might  have  been  presup- 
posed, having  regard  to  the  marked  distinction  between 
their  style  and  method ;  and,  as  we  have  seen,  in  order  to 
follow  that  ideal  he  was  ready  to  immolate  sensibilities 
which  naturally  were  most  acute. 


208  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

He  also,  who  as  a  young  undergraduate  Demy  had  cov- 
ered the  panels  of  his  college  rooms  with  all  the  witti- 
cisms he  heard  and  read,  in  the  first  days  of  his  successful 
authorship  began  both  to  collect  material  in  commonplace 
books,  which  ere  his  decease  had  swollen  to  huge  pro- 
portions, and  further  to  study  the  canons  of  style  and 
method,*  or  rather  to  frame  them  for  his  own  guidance. 
He  desired  above  all  things  to  combine  conciseness  with 
perspicuity,  and  to  write  in  such  wise  that  his  reader 
should  never  skip  a  line.  To  this  end  he  scribbled  memo- 
randa for  his  own  guidance,  whenever  an  idea  seized  on 
his  imagination.  The  fac-simile  on  following  page  will 
give  an  idea  of  the  severity  wherewith  he  was  disciplin- 
ing both  his  brain  and  his  pen. 

With  the  termination  of  his  year  of  Vice-Presidency 
his  official  connection  with  Oxford  ceased.  He  retained 
his  five  rooms  in  Magdalen,  and  visited  them  occasionally, 
preferring  the  depth  of  the  long  vacations,  when  the  col- 
lege was  quite  empty.     His  spell  of  residence,  however,  at 

*  Mr.  Walter  Besant  has  commented  with  singular  felicity  in  The  Gen- 
tleman'a  Magazine  on  Charles  Reade's  method :  "  Strength,  truth,  anima- 
tion," he  says,  "  these  arc  three  excellent  qualities  for  a  novelist  to  possess. 
They  will  not  be  denied  to  Charles  Reade  even  by  his  enemies.  There  is, 
however,  a  great  deal  more.  He  is  a  scholar  and  a  student  He  says 
himself,  '  I  studied  the  great  art  of  Fiction  closely  for  fifteen  years  before 
I  presumed  to  write  a  line.  I  was  a  ripe  critic  before  I  became  an  artist.' 
He  has  approached  art  therefore  in  the  truest  spirit,  that  of  a  resolute 
student,  who  knows  that  there  is  much  to  learn,  but  is  conscious  of  his 
powers.  I  know  no  other  example  in  history  of  a  writer  who  deliberately 
proposed  to  become  a  novelist,  and  spent  fifteen  years  in  preparation  for 
his  work.  .  .  .  The  possession,  then,  of  scholarship  which  gives  judgment, 
taste,  and  discernment,  strength  of  treatment,  clearness  of  vision,  fidelity 
of  portraiture,  fidelity  of  incident,  the  careful  study  of  art,  the  life  of 
action,  truth  in  facts — these  are  qualities  which  seem  by  themselves  to 
justify  a  place  in  the  very  first  rank." 


.aS''-<^' 


j-Oj- 


210  Memoir  of  Charles  Meade. 

any  one  time  never  exceeded  six,  and  rarely  attained  to 
three  weeks.  He  soon  wearied  of  the  place  and  its  uncon- 
genial surroundings,  although  anterior  to  1854  he  was  far 
more  comfortable  in  college  than  in  town.  He  himself 
alludes  to  the  discomfort  of  his  Covent  Garden  lodgings; 
and  certainly  those  of  Tom  Taylor,  to  which  he  succeeded, 
deserved  to  be  styled  burrows  in  contrast  with  his  beauti- 
ful rooms  in  the  New  Buildings,  facing  on  the  south  the 
cloisters  and  towers  of  ancient  Magdalen,  and  on  the  north 
overlooking  The  Grove,  with  its  browsing  deer  and  the 
romantic  water-walk  associated  with  the  name  and  fame 
of  Addison,  but  equally  so  really  with  that  of  Collins  and 
Christopher  North.  The  chambers  of  Tom  Taylor  were 
over  what  was  then  the  publishing  house  of  Messrs.  Chap- 
man &  Hall,  in  Piccadilly,  and  the  bedroom  was  little 
larger  than  a  cupboard.  The  situation  of  course  was  ad- 
mirable from  a  town  point  of  view,  but  much  the  reverse 
of  sanitary;  indeed,  the  move  to  Bolton  Row  later  on  af- 
forded Charles  Reade  the  space  he  of  all  authors  most 
needed,  over  and  above  the  minimum  cubic  inches  of  oxy- 
gen essential  for  health  and  vigorous  brain  power.  Yet  it 
was  partly  in  College  and  partly  in  Piccadilly  that  he 
wrote  his  three  first  novels,  together  with  his  original 
drama  "  Gold." 

From  the  commencement  of  his  acquaintance  with  Mrs. 
Seymour,  who  persistently  spurred  her  friend's  Pegasus, 
Charles  Reade's  life  may  be  designated  as  a  record  conter- 
minous with  his  books,  plays,  letters,  and  lawsuits.  Never- 
theless, on  two  notable  occasions  after  his  year  of  Vice- 
Presidency,  he  descended  on  Magdalen  College  as  a  Deus 
ex  machind,  to  save  the  Fellows  from  blunders  which  they 
were  only  too  eager  to  perpetrate.  Not  long  afterwards 
he  declared  that  he  would  write  a  novel  called  "  The  Pres- 


Vice-President.  211 

ident  and  Fellows,"  merely  to  show  the  world  how  ex- 
ceedingly silly  a  quasi-ecclesiastical  corporation  can  be. 
The  theme,  however,  could  not  have  been  inspiring,  for 
the  terrible  menace  ended  as  it  began,  in  mere  talk. 

The  first  of  these  occasions  was  in  1854.  Poor  old  Mar- 
tin Joseph  Routh,  in  his  hundredth  year,  had  ceased  to 
exist  on  Christmas-eve.  The  veneration  accorded  to  ex- 
treme age  was  never  more  thoroughly  exhibited  than  by 
the  college  and  its  individual  members,  from  the  highest 
to  the  humblest.  Routh  had  been  President  sixty-three 
years.  He  baptized  his  wife  as  an  infant.  He  admitted 
the  grandson  of  Cox,  the  Esquire  Bedell,  a  man  he  had 
previously,  i.  e.,  some  sixty  years  before,  also  admitted,  as 
chorister  of  the  college.  His  regulation  topic  of  conver- 
sation was  the  Young  Pretender  and  the  Jacobite  faction. 
His  diction,  when  he  chanced  to  be  out  of  temper,  which 
was  seldom,  was  as  full-flavored  as  that  of  another  Martin, 
the  beacon  of  the  Reformation.  He  never  appeared  with- 
out a  full-bottomed  wig  adorning  his  venerable  cranium. 
His  favorite  joke  was  to  inquire  after  people  long  since 
dead,  and  op  being  informed  of  their  decease  to  express 
astonishment.  He  hated  the  tutors  of  the  College  beyond 
expression,  and  desired  that  Dr.  Bloxam,  the  antiquarian, 
should  be  his  successor.  His  politics  were  those  of  Straf- 
ford, his  religion  that  of  Laud,  and  it  is  to  his  influence 
that  the  American  Episcopal  Church  is  indebted  for  the 
real,  or  imaginary,  Apostolic  succession,  inasmuch  as  he 
persuaded  Seabury  to  obtain  episcopal  consecration  from 
the  Scotch  Bishops. 

This  old  man's  autocratic  temper  was  extraordinary.* 

*  Very  rarely  Dr.  Routh  visited  Londou,  but  when  he  did  venture  so  far 
from  the  academic  shades,  he  always  travelled  by  a  coach  called  the  "  Star." 
Now  as  time  passed  and  competition  had  increased,  the  owners  of  this  coach 


212  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

The  CoDsar  of  Magdalen,  he  was  wont  to  affirm  that  any 
member  of  the  Foundation,  not  being  a  Fellow,  could  be 
turned  out  nutu  Proesidis.  Armed,  however,  as  he  be- 
lieved himself  to  be,  with  such  absolute  authority,  he  so 
used  it  as  to  render  his  college  one  of  the  least  disciplined 
in  Oxford.  When  a  Demy  appeared  three  days  after  the 
commencement  of  term,  having  in  fact  been  detained  in 
London  by  the  paramount  claims  of  self-indulgence,  and 
when  the  tutors  suggested  that  the  gentleman  should  be  rus- 
ticated for  this  offence,  Routh  at  once  had  them  on  the  hip. 

"  Three  days  late,  is  he  ?"  whimpered  the  old  fellow  in 
his  childish  treble.  "  Well,  sirs,  there  has  been  a  heavy 
fall  of  snow,  and  as  the  gentleman  resides  in  Norfolk,  no 
doubt  the  coaches  have  been  detained  along  the  road!" 

"  But,"  urged  the  tutors,  "  he  could  have  reached  Ox- 
ford in  a  few  hours  by  railway." 

"Railway?"  quoth  Dr.  Routh,  incredulously.  "Ah, 
well,  I  don't  know  anything  about  that!"  and  so  with  the 
typical  flea  in  its  ear  minor  authority  was  dismissed. 

The  old  man  refused  to  believe  in  the  existence  of  the 
G.W.R.,  whose  whistle  he  heard  every  day  of.his  life. 

On  another  occasion  one  of  the  choral  clerks  happened 
to  have  been  in  residence  some  three  years  and  three  quar- 
ters, but  had  not  succeeded  in  passing  "  Smalls,"  the  ex- 
amination usually  surmounted  after  three  months'  resi- 

found  it  desirable  to  reduce  the  fares ;  Dr.  Routh  alighted,  as  was  his  wont, 
in  Oxford  Street,  and  was  assisted  respectfully  by  the  coachman,  to  whom 
he  handed  £1  Vs.  6rf. — twenty-five  shillings  the  fare,  and  half  a  crown  the 
gratuity  to  John — who,  as  the  money  was  being  paid  to  him,  said,  "  The  fare, 
Mr.  President,  is  reduced  to  a  guinea."  Dr.  Routh  paused  and  reflected. 
"Sir,"  he  replied,  "I  always  have  paid  twenty-five  shillings, and  I  always 
shall."  Needless  to  add,  a  reverential  bow  expressed  the  submission  of 
the  recipient  to  this  solemn  decision,  by  which  he  reaped  the  benefit  of  an 
extra  four  shillings. 


Vice-President.  213 

dence.  The  junior  tutor  called  to  request  that  this  gen- 
tleman should  be  removed  from  the  college.  The  venera- 
ble President  at  once  assumed  an  expression  of  extreme 
astonishment.  "  I  don't  know  anything  about  your  exam- 
inations," he  replied  to  the  complaining  don.  "Have  you 
anything  to  say  as  regards  the  gentleman's  moral  charac- 
ter or  conduct?"  The  tutor  responded  in  the  negative. 
"  Then,"  cried  the  President  in  an  outburst  of  righteous 
indignation,  "  how  dare  you  come  here,  sir,  to  attack  a  re- 
spectable member  of  the  college?  His  father,  sir,  is  a 
friend  of  my  friend,  the  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells;  and  I 
will  not  listen,  sir,  to  any  such  frivolous  allegations!" 

The  poor  human  fossil  was  writing  a  book — one  of  the 
sort  that  nobody  reads — when  the  dread  summons  sound- 
ed; and,  oddly  enough,  though  it  was  virtually  impossible 
that  his  life  could  be  prolonged,  everybody  seemed  startled 
by  his  death.  It  came  upon  the  college  like  an  earth- 
quake; and  men  felt  that  they  had  lost  a  father,  for  Dr. 
Routh,  malgre  his  eccentricities,  was  the  true  friend  of  ev- 
eiy  member  of  his  splendid  Foundation,  and  had  a  long 
memory  for  faces  far  remote  from  Oxford  influences. 
Sawell,  one  of  the  senior  chaplains,  hurried  to  his  bedside 
to  kiss  his  cold  remains,  and  the  Fellows  resolved  that  he 
should  have  the  grandest  funeral  that  could  be  organized, 
and  repose  in  front  of  the  altar  in  the  College  Chapel. 
Charles  Readc  was  in  London  laboring  at  "  It  is  Never 
Too  Late  to  Mend,"  with  a  good  heart,  thanks  to  the  indis- 
putable success  of  "Christie  Johnstone;"  but  no  sooner 
did  the  news  reach  him  than  he  hurried  to  Oxford  the  first 
train.  Le  roi  est  mort ! —  Vive  le  roi  !  would  be  the  next 
cry;  but,  under  which  King,  Bezonian?  That  was  the 
question,  and  one  fraught  witli  great  anxiety  for  every 
Fellow  of  Magdalen. 


214  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

The  College  was  as  yet  unreformed  and  unmutilatcd. 
It  was  still  battling  the  Queen's  Commissioners,  though 
not  Avith  the  same  pluck  wherewith  it  had  resisted  King 
James  II.  Much  depended,  therefore,  on  the  character  of 
the  man  selected  for  its  head,  in  succession  to  Dr.  Routh. 
If  they  elected  a  Liberal,  the  Commissioners  would  be  em- 
boldened to  increase  their  demands,  for  the  rent-roll  of 
Magdalen  had  risen  to  quite  £30,000  a  year,  and  that  lump 
sum  constituted  fUr  j^li^nder.  Besides,  all  the  little  col- 
leges were  bitterly  envious  of  rich  and  beautiful  Mag- 
dalen, and  burning  with  anxiety  that  it  should  be  de- 
spoiled. This  election,  therefore,  was  a  crucial  one;  and 
Charles  Reade  had  registered  a  mental  resolve  that  he 
would  carry  his  friend  Bulley,  a  Tory,  a  High-Churchman, 
but  by  no  means  a  bigot,  a  sound  Greek  scholar,  and  the 
son  of  the  Reading  Doctor,  who  had  administered  to  the 
corporeal  necessities  of  Ipsden  House.  Bulley  was  then 
senior  tutor,  and  in  respect  of  dignity  of  manner  rivalled 
one  of  his  sire's  patients.  Lord  Stowell.  He  was  reticent, 
cautious,  and  yet  genial  in  a  quiet  way.  He  never  did  a 
foolish  thing,  and  never  said  a  wise  one. 

On  the  other  side  was  Andrew  Edwards,  ex-Mathemati- 
cal tutor,  a  mild  reformer,  and  so  charming  a  gentleman 
that  it  seems  almost  astonishing  he  was  not  elected  by 
acclamation.  But  for  his  Liberal  principles  his  claims 
would  have  outweighed  those  of  Bulley;  and,  as  it  was, 
he  ran  him  close. 

Thirdly,  there  was  the  then  Vice-President,  Mr.  Harris, 
who  was  supposed  to  be  a  more  pronounced  Liberal  than 
Mr.  Edwards,  and  withal  personally  acceptable  to  the 
junior  Fellows.  He  was  barely  forty-two  years  of  age, 
whereas  Edwards  was  fifty-six,  and  Bulley  forty-eight. 
The  election,  as  will  appear,  was  conducted  on  such  lines 


Vice-President.  216 

that  Mr.  Harris  might  have  come  in  but  for  Charles  Reade's 
timely  interference — this  with  every  apology  to  the  unsuc- 
cessful candidate.  But  first,  before  the  new  sovereign  of 
our  academical  state  could  be  elected,  the  obsequies  of 
the  monarch  deceased  had  to  be  performed  with  due  so- 
lemnity. Mr.  Harris,  as  President  pro  tern.,  had  the  ai-- 
rangements  in  his  hands,  and  carried  them  out  perfectly. 
Unfortunately  the  old  oi'gan  had  been  removed,  and  the 
glorious  new  instrument,  the  chef  d^osuvre  of  Messrs.  Gray 
&  Davison,  was  not  yet  in  situ,  while  the  ante-chapel 
presented  an  appearance  of  unseemly  litter.  The  choral 
service,  therefore,  was  necessarily  unaccompanied;  but  Mr. 
Blyth,  the  organist  of  that  epoch,  boasted  some  of  the  no- 
blest treble  singers  in  England,  and  certainly  as  the  pro- 
cession moved  from  the  College  Hall  round  the  picturesque 
cloisters  to  the  Chapel,  the  effect  of  Croft  and  Purcell's 
Aveird  strains  was  most  sublime.  Among  the  Fellows  who 
clustered  rt)und  the  gaping  grave,  wherein,  with  the  proud 
"  C "  on  his  coffin,  were  deposited  the  remains  of  their 
President,  none  in  his  surplice  and  doctor's  hood  looked 
more  impressed,  or  presented  in  himself  a  more  impressive 
figure,  than  Charles  Reade.  It  may  have  occurred  to 
some,  even  then,  that  there  stood  the  grand  man  with  the 
grand  mind,  who  ought  to  have  been  President,  the  one 
Fellow  of  the  entire  body  worthy  to  be  the  pediment  of 
so  noble  a  Foundation.  That,  however,  was  out  of  the 
question.  They  wanted  a  pedant  for  their  President,  and 
had  Shakespeare,  Milton,  and  Byron  offered  themselves, 
they  would  have  preferred  some  academical  mediocrity. 
It  was  clearly  understood  that  there  was  to  be  no  nonsense 
of  merit  about  the  Presidential  election.  Nobody  outside 
the  College  walls  had  ever  heard  of  such  names  as  Bulley, 
Edwards,  or  Harris.     They  resembled  nothing  more  than 


216  Memoir  of  Charles  Beade. 

Dickens's  "  Noakes,  or  Stokes,  or  Brown,  or  Styles,"  all  esti- 
mable gentlemen,  let  it  be  freely  admitted;  nevertheless, 
the  most  exalted  positions  in  the  first  of  English  univer- 
sities ought,  one  would  imagine,  to  be  reserved  for  those 
who  have  made  their  mark,  and  earned  an  undying  repu- 
tation. As  it  was,  the  choice  lay  between  three  worthy 
pigmies;  and  now  let  us  hear  what  the  mammoth  who  was 
backer  of  one  of  these  pigmies  has  to  say: 

"  It  is  past  one  o'clock.  I  have  been  employed  actively 
ever  since  nine,  driving  an  idea  into  some  of  the  thickest 
skulls  I  have  ever  encountered.  It  is  a  most  fortunate  thing 
for  the  Rev.  F.  BuUey  that  I  came  down  here  this  evening. 
I  don't  know  whether  he  will  be  President  of  Magdalen  or 
not;  but  this  I  know,  that  but  for  me  some  five  to  seven 
of  his  supporters  would  have  been  cajoled  into  cutting  his 
throat  to-morrow.  I  will  explain  this  to  you  at  a  future 
time.  It  is  a  matter  of  figures,  very  curious,  and  may  per- 
haps amuso  you  to  see  the  blunder  they  were  about  to  fall 
into — 

"  Tenez.  I  will  try  and  explain  it  now: 

"There  are  37  Fellows,  all  of  whom  are  compelled  in 
the  first  instance  to  give  two  distinct  votes.  The  result 
of  this  process  is,  that  there  will  be  at  the  head  of  the 
poll  two  Fellows.  Then  these  two  Fellows  are  sent  up  to 
the  13  senior  Fellows,  who  choose  one  of  them  for  Pres- 
ident. 

"The  struggle  lies  between  three  men — Bulley  (my 
friend  and  the  favorite),  Edwards,  and  Harris.  Now,  out 
of  the  37  men  I  believe  there  are  20  men  who  wish  Bulley 
to  be  President;  and  if  the  said  Bulley  could  be  placed 
first,  or  even  second  upon  the  first  process,  there  is  no 
doubt  that  the  13  seniors  would  choose  him.     But  here  is 


Vice-President.  217 

the  grand  oversight  they  have  all  made.  Harris's  men 
have  been  cajoling  Bulley's  men  to  give  Harris  or  Edwards 
their  second  vote,  and  most  have  agreed  to;  but  Harris's 
men  may  give  all  their  second  votes  to  Edwards,  and  Ed- 
wards's vice  versa  to  Harris,  and  in  point  of  fact  this  will 
be  the  case.     Now  see  the  result  of  this: 

"  Bulley's  20  friends  register  for  Bulley  20  votes,  for 
Edwards  10,  and  for  Harris  10.  Seventeen  men  remain, 
of  whom  12  are  Harris's  friends,  5  Edwards's;  but  out  of 
this  number,  who  all  hate  Bulley,  no  one  will  go  to  Bulley, 
but  17  to  Harris,  and  17  to  Edwards. 

"  Result.  Harris,  27  votes;  Edwards,  27  votes;  and  Bul- 
ley, 20. 

"  N.  B.  Each  Fellow  must  vote  for  two  people. 

"  Upon  these  figures  Bulley  would  never  be  sent  up  to 
the  13  seniors  at  all,  and  either  Harris  or  Edwards  must 
be  the  President. 

"  The  error  Bulley's  friends  have  all  fallen  into  may  be 
thus  stated : 

"Thirty-seven  men,  with  two  votes  each,  are  74  votes; 
but  Bulley's  friends  have  counted  them  as  only  37  votes, 
and  his  20  votes  have  appeared  to  make  him  safe,  and  so 
20  out  of  37  would;  but  it  is  20  out  of  74,  and  the  odd  54 
will  put  two  men  above  Bulley  and  destroy  him. 

"  Here  is  another  way  of  stating  it.  Bulley  has  more 
friends  than  Harris  and  Edwards  put  together;  but  Harris 
and  Edwards  have  no  enemies,  and  Bulley  has  17  enemies 
who  cabal  to  keep  him  out  coiite  que  coute,  whereas  Bulley's 
poor  simpletons  give  their  second  votes  indiscriminately  to 
Harris  and  Edwards,  or  were  going  to;  but  I  have  stopped 
some  of  them,  thank  Heaven.  I  wish  you  had  seen  me 
attacking  this  blunder.  I  wish  you  had  seen  the  pains  it 
cost  me  to  make  them  see  it. 
10 


218  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

"I  wish  you  had  seen  the  complacent  supineness  of 
Bulley's  friends,  their  cool  ridicule  of  the  idea  that  with 
20  friends  out  of  37  he  could  run  any  risk.  I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  their  faces  as  I  succeeded  in  convincing 
them,  not  only  that  their  friend  was  not  safe  if  they  played 
the  fool  with  their  second  votes,  but  that  by  G —  he  had 
not  the  ghost  of  a  chance,  whiph  is  the  plain  fact.  I  was 
hours  before  I  could  get  them  to  realize  this;  however,  I 
swore  in  a  little  band  who  promised  me  to  neutralize  their 
second  vote,  and  to  enforce  the  necessity  of  this  on  their 
friends.  I  think  we  shall  certainly  neutralize  half;  in 
other  words,  I  hope  out  of  Bulley's  20  friends,  10  will 
now  give  him  virtual  plumpers  by  giving  their  second  vote 
to  any  one  except  Edwards  or  Harris.  Thus  BuUey  will 
have  20  votes;  10  votes  will  be  put  out  of  the  play,  and  44 
will  remain  for  Edwards  and  Harris,  and  here  is  a  grand 
chance  for  Bulley.  There  will  be  a  few  muddle-heads  in 
the  enemies'  camp  as  well  as  ours,  and  if  they  do  not  divide 
their  44  votes  cetera  desunt.^'' 

The  two  candidates  sent  up  to  the  13  Seniors  for  their 
final  decision  were  Bulley  and  Edwards,  and  the  former 
scored  seven  to  Edwards's  five.  Harris,  as  Vice-President, 
had  the  determining  vote,  but  had  he  gone  for  Edwards, 
Bulley  would  still  have  scored  a  majority  of  one.  Well 
might  that  worthy  gentleman  have  exclaimed  sic  me  ser- 
vavit  Apollo  ;  for  if  Charles  Reade,  D.C.L.,  had  not  come 
down  by  the  evening  train  in  the  nick  of  time,  Mr.  Harris, 
at  present  the  esteemed  pastor  of  Winterbourne  Basset, 
would  now  be  President  of  Magdalen. 

The  next  occasion  when  Charles  Reade  interposed  his 
brain  to  safeguard  the  interests  of  his  brother  Fellows 


Vice-President.  219 

was  about  two  years  later.  From  1851,  when  President 
Routh  openly  defied  the  Royal  Commission,  to  1858,  when 
a  compromise  between  the  views  of  the  Commissioners 
and  those  of  the  College  was  finally  settled,  everything 
was  in  abeyance.  The  Commissioners,  being  rapacious, 
were  more  anxious  to  abstract  a  huge  slice  of  the  endow- 
ment of  Magdalen  than  to  reform  or  reorganize  the  col- 
lege itself.  To  this  end  they  offered  the  governing  body, 
i.  e.,  the  President  and  Fellows,  a  tempting  bait.  Each 
of  these  privileged  persons  in  the  future  was  to  draw  a 
fixed  income  from  the  College  revenues,  and  this  stipend 
was  to  be  put  at  a  higher  figure  than  the  existing  divi- 
dends. In  return,  the  said  President  and  Fellows  were  to 
hand  over  the  management  and  disposition  of  their  estates 
to  the  Commissioners.  They  were  no  longer  to  be  their 
own  masters,  but,  as  Charles  Rcade  phrased  it,  to  be  sti- 
pendiaries in  their  own  house.  The  Commission,  howev- 
er, had  shown  too  much  of  its  hand.  One  of  its  proposi- 
tions was  to  suspend,  or — in  plain  English — abrogate,  ten 
Fellowships.  Another  was  to  found  three  Professorships 
out  of  the  moneys  saved  by  this  interference  with  the 
Founder's  arrangements.  Now,  it  was  very  easy  on  these 
lines  to  make  an  arithmetic  sum  of  the  loss  and  gain  to  the 
dividends  of  the  Fellows  by  some  such  experiment;  and 
this  same  sum  showed,  that  after  the  suppression  of  the 
ten  Fellowships  and  the  foundation  of  three  Professorships 
at  £600  a  year  each,  the  dividend  would  go  up  about  30 
per  cent.  Yet,  incredible  though  it  may  seem,  some  of 
the  intelligent  Fellows  were  ardently  anxious  to  obliterate 
themselves,  to  barter  away  the  independence  of  their  col- 
lege, and  to  lose  money  to  the  tune  of  30  per  cent,  in  or- 
der to  gain  an  apparently  immediate  increment  of  a  few 
sovereigns.     There  is  no  limit  to  human  cupidity  or  hu- 


220  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

man  folly,  and  this  piece  of  avaricious  foolery  simply  in- 
censed Charles  Reade,  who  came  down  to  fight  the  battle 
of  common-sensG  against  uncommon  idiotcy.  He  bore 
down  all  opposition  with  Rupertlike  impetuosity,  and  had 
the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  his  brain  had  been  of  real 
service  to  a  set  of  people  who  seemed  singularly  deficient 
in  that  particular. 

This  is  his  account  of  his  passage-at-arms.  It  reads 
like  "  Yeni^  vidi,  viciP'* 

"  We  have  been  hard  at  it  from  1 1  till  4.  As  I  dine  with  the  President 
(Bulley),  I  sit  down  now  to  scratch  off  a  line  before  it  is  too  late. 

"  Well,  I  made  a  speech,  a  long  speech.  And  carried  the  college  with 
me  like  one  man. 

"  I  was  opposed  by  a  fellow  tliat  is  supposed  to  be  influential ;  but  I 
carried  them  with  me,  19  votes  to  one,  and  sent  up  an  amendment  on  a 
vital  clause. 

"  If  the  Commissioners  receive  it,  I  may  say : 

" '  I  have  saved  the  College  that  has  been  a  good  mother  to  me  since  I 
was  lY  years  of  age.'  The  worst  is,  this  has  interrupted  my  story,  but  I 
hardly  thought  of  Bentley  once  all  day.    Put  that  against  it." 

This  success  at  a  critical  College  meeting  placed  him  on 
good  terms  with  Magdalen,  and  induced  him  to  dedicate 
the  novel  to  which  this  letter  refers,  to 

"  TTiat  ancient,  learned,  and  most  hosjntable  Housed'' 
Would  that  the  kindly  epithets  had  lasted  ! 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

EKADE    VS.     BENTLEY. 

His  reference  to  Mr.  Bentley  has  something  in  it  almost 
pathetic.  When,  in  obedience  to  the  dictates  of  common- 
sense,  he  decided  to  convert  into  a  novel  his  magnificent 
drama  "  Masks  and  Faces,"  the  first  fruit,  as  he  deemed  it, 
of  his  genius,  he  had  been  very  well  pleased  to  discover  in 
Mr.  Bentley  a  publisher  willing  to  take  him  by  the  hand. 
The  book  was  termed  "  Peg  Woffington,"  and  we  may 
safely  affirm,  without  fear  of  contradiction,  that  in  the 
English  language  there  exists  no  work  of  fiction  written 
so  concisely  yet  with  such  graphic  force.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  discover  one  word  too  many;  even  less  easy  to 
suggest  how  without  detriment  to  the  intensity  of  the  in- 
terest a  line  of  description  could  be  added.  We  have  al- 
ready seen,  from  his  own  testimony,  how  he  excised  not  a 
few  of  Taylor's  picturesque  superfluities  from  the  play; 
nor  was  he  less  rigorous  with  his  own  copy.  One  winter's 
night  he  sat  for  several  hours  in  the  rooms  in  Magdalen 
of  Dr.  Harris  Smith,  younger  brother  of  Canon  Bernard 
Smith — number  eight,  Cloisters,  first  pair  left — and  pen  in 
hand,  essayed  an  epilogue  to  that  play.  At  the  moment 
he  was  pleased  with  his — shall  we  call  it,  doggerel?  He 
read  it,  and  reread  it  to  the  writer  of  these  lines,  request- 
ing him  to  suggest  something  more  euphonious  for  the 
concluding  couplet,  a  task  to  which  the  brain  of  the  said 
nephew,  then  but  a  schoolboy,  was  by  no  means  equal.   At 


222      i  Memoir  of  Charles  Ueade. 

the  risk  of  raising  a  smile  we  recall  this  moribund  epi- 
logue.    It  ran  thus: 

"  A  hundred  jears  have  passed  away 

Since  all  these  leaves  fell  from  the  tree. 

The  tree  still  blows  as  green  as  ever, 
«   For  artists  perish,  art  dies  never. 

Gibber,  and  Woffington,  and  I, 

Live  but  to  make  you  laugh,  and  cry ; 

And  show  you  still,  that  here's  the  will, 

The  warm  desire  to  please  ye. 

And  find  a  way  to  make  you  stay 

An  hour  with  Fan  or  Peggy !" 

First  impressions,  however,  never  left  a  lasting  mark  on 
an  author  whose  powers  of  self-criticism  and  self-revision 
were  unbounded,  always  premising  that  he  was  not  hurried 
prematurely  in  celeres  iambos,  or  any  other  form  of  print- 
er's ink.  Hence,  out  went  these  lines,  together  with  some 
of  the  Taylorian  embellishments,  and  "  Masks  and  Faces  " 
remains  an  eternal  monument  to  the  fidelity  to  art  of  hon- 
est authorship. 

He  preferred  "  Masks  and  Faces  "  to  "  Peg  Woffington," 
and  in  his  inmost  heart  felt,  as  a  matter  of  preference,  that 
"the  play's  the  thing!"  Yet  he  had  no  cause  to  com- 
plain of  the  reception  of  his  first  literary  essay.  The 
Times  led  the  way  with  a  strong  encomium;  the  reviews 
followed  suit.  Certainly  Oxford  was  beyond  measure  de- 
lighted. The  only  grumble  was,  that  he  had  not  made 
"  Peg  WoflSngton  "  sufiiciently  Irish — indeed,  it  was  pri- 
vately hinted  that  he  might  recast  the  character  on  the 
lines  of  Lever  with  advantage.  That,  however,  was  hyper- 
criticism.  He  introduced  "  Peg  "  as  a  leading  lady  on  the 
London  stage,  not  as  a  savage  Irishwoman  from  Kerry; 
and  he  could  hardly  have  been  far  wrong  in  his  presump- 


Reade  versus  Bentley.  223 

tion  that  she  had  learned  the  English  language.  Indeed, 
whether  we  regard  this  same  conception  as  a  drama,  or  as 
dramatic  narration,  we  are  lost  in  admiration  of  its  gor- 
geous literary  quality.  Its  author  from  first  to  last  was 
jealous  for  its  honor.  For  example,  writing  some  years 
later  from  the  Garrick  Club  to  Mrs.  Seymour  at  Brighton, 
he  says,  "You  are  right,  I  think,  to  play  'Masks  and 
Faces '  with  Mrs.  Wy ndham  and  Toole.  Tell  me  how  you 
get  on  with  it;  and  mind,  nothing  must  be  left  to  chance 
with  respect  to  the  picture.  Talk  to  Toole.  Show  him 
in  what  state  he  is  to  take  it  on.  And  explain  to  him  that 
he  must  not  really  strike  it  in  the  Third  Act." 

Again,  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Seymour  from  Paris,  of  the 
date  probably  1852  or '53  (hewewer  dated  a  letter),  we  find 
this  reference  to,  apparently,  the  play,  though  he  gives  it 
the  title  of  the  novel: 

"  IIuTEL  National,  Rue  Notre  Dame  des  Victoires,  Paris. 

"  You  may  imagine  with  what  pleasure  I  saw  3-our  well-known  hand. 

"  Heaven  forbid  that  the  fate  of  the  leaf  should  be  yours  ! 

"  See  how  dangerous  are  similes.  You  almost  deserve  that  I  should  re- 
mind you  that  you  are  not  the  leaf,  but  the  plant,  which  is  not  injured, 
happily,  because  it  sacrifices  a  leaf  to  healing  purposes. 

"I  am  not  in  very  good  spirits  about   business.     has  already 

brought  out  a  play  called  'Zes  Cheixheurs  d^Or;^  and,  of  course,  this  is  an 
almost  invincible  obstacle  to  me. 

"  The  theatres  arc  very  uninteresting.  The  weather  is  most  oppressive 
to  the  spirits,  so,  as  usual,  je  suis  tristc. 

"  We  have  translated  the  First  Act  of  '  Peg  Woffington,'  and  it  looks 
well  in  French.  My  translator,  who  is  a  dramatic  author,  is  satisfied  with 
the  First  Act ;  and  the  action  of  the  other  two  is  quite  as  rapid,  so  I  hope 
we  shall  do." 

These  brief  excerpts  will  give  an  idea  of  how  intensely 
his  mind  was  wrapped  up  in  "  Peg  " — call  it  drama,  or 
call  it  novel — even  while  he  was  engaged  on  "Gold." 


224  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

Never  was  a  theme  subjected  to  more  careful,  more  lov- 
ing elaboration. 

"Peg  Woffington,"  the  novel,  saw  the  light  in  the 
summer  of  1853,  the  last  year  of  the  venerable  George 
Stanley  Faber's  life.  That  able  theologian,  in  the  re- 
cesses of  his  study  at  Sherburn  Hospital,  read  the  book 
between  5  a.  m.,  his  invariable  hour  for  rising,  and  8,30, 
the  family  breakfast  hour,  and  was  simply  entranced  by 
his  nephew's  achievement.  Strange  to  relate,  he  handed 
it  to  a  rather  clever  Irish  lady,  his  guest  at  the  time,  who 
in  turn  at  dinner  pronounced  it  to  be  "quite  passable, 
but  devoid  of  imagination  " — quot  feniince  tot  sententicB  ! 
This  was  not  the  universal  verdict  of  the  sex.  Mrs.  Reade, 
for  example,  doffed  her  puritanism  for  the  occasion,  vowed 
that  her  Charles  had  done  himself  credit,  but  sent  him 
with  this  warm  meed  of  praise  a  loving  hint  that  his 
mother  hoped  he  would  never  write  a  word  he  need  after- 
wards feel  ashamed  of.  Perhaps  we  may  hazard  the  as- 
sertion that  the  book  did  as  well  as  the  play.  The  latter, 
except  in  one  particular,  fared  better  subsequently  under 
the  stage  management  of  Mrs.  Bancroft.  The  former  was 
the  tentative  effort  of  an  unknown  man.  That  alone  will 
account  for  the  sum  handed  to  him  by  his  publisher,  on 
the  half-profit  system,  reaching  only  the  modest  total  of 
ilSO. 

To  say  that  the  author  was  discouraged  is  to  reveal  an 
open  secret.  Still  the  reviews  had  spoken  words  of  strong 
praise.     He  felt  inspired  to  try  again. 

"Christie  Johnstone"  differs  from  "Peg  Woffington" 
in  being  less  concisely  dramatic  and  more  descriptive.  It 
IS  a  beautiful,  because  an  ideal,  story,  and  the  plaudits  of 
the  press  grew  in  volume  and  intensity.  Here  again,  not- 
withstanding, the  reading  public  only  displayed  a  mild 


Reade  versus  Beniley.  225 

avidity,  and  the  author  netted  another  miserable  £30. 
This  was  indeed  a  sorry  victory.  He  had  evidently  failed 
to  command  the  popular  ear,  and  his  robust  intellect  did 
not  fail  to  read  the  lesson  of  this  succes  cVestime.  Pie  per- 
ceived that  he  must  paint  on  a  bigger  canvas,  and  color 
with  varied  and  absorbing  human  interests.  A  weaker 
mind  would  have  been  dashed,  and  given  up.  His  was 
spurred  onwards  to  grander  and  more  laborious  exertions. 
He  never  lost  faith  in  his  children^  as  he  fondly  styled 
the  products  of  his  brain.  Nor,  as  regards  these  two,  was 
his  paternal  affection  misplaced.  "  Peg  "  must  be  peren- 
nial. She  has  as  much  life  in  her  as  Lady  Teazle.  The 
character  of  Triplet  alone  would  suffice  to  render  either 
the  novel  or  the  play  coeval  with  the  English  language. 
"  Christie  Johnstone,"  odd,  epigrammatic,  and  angular 
as  it  may  be  termed,  coruscates  with  a  glorious  tender- 
ness, and  when  its  author  for  once  forgets  to  be  terse,  and 
launches  into  description,  he  gives  us  in  the  rescue  scene 
one  of  the  most  vivid  of  word-pictures  ever  penned.  He 
was  right  to  love  these  two  novels — blessed  pair  of  sirens 
— the  efflux  of  his  earlier  genius.  The  irony  of  fate  de- 
creed that  just  as  he  had  to  battle  for  his  Fellowship,  which 
was  his  own,  so  also  for  the  copyrights  of  these  novels. 

The  following  is  his  own  version  of  the  struggle,  which 
at  the  time  affected  him  profoundly — we  might  almost  say 
morbidly,  for  his  fury  against  Messrs.  Bentley  was  eva- 
nescent, and  after  his  dearly  bought  victory  entirely  ceased. 
Perhaps  it  might  be  affirmed  with  truth  that  soon  after 
the  hatchet  was  buried  the  old  sentiment  of  friendship 
revived.  Certain  it  is,  that  both  the  Bentleys,  father  and 
son,  malgre  their  defeat,  entertained  towards  their  antag- 
onist feelings  of  the  most  chivalrous  character.  They 
fought  him  for  what  they  imagined^=ras  it  proved  erro- 
10* 


226  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

neously — to  be  their  legal  rights.  They  lost,  and  they 
lost  with  a  good  grace.  It  is  gratifying  to  reflect  that 
his  last  as  well  as  his  first  novel  was  issued  by  that  emi- 
nent, liberal,  and  honorable  firm. 

"  I  produced,"  he  writes,  "  two  novels  in  one  vol.  each, 
*  Peg  "VVoflington,'  *  Christie  Johnstone.' 

"  These  were  published  on  what  is  called  the  half-profit 
system. 

"  Under  this  system,  which  encouraged  many  frauds,  I  re- 
ceived for  those  two  successful  works  only  £60 — for  the  two. 

"My  publisher  endeavored  to  seize  on  the  copyright, 
which  the  agreement  did  not  justify. 

"I  took  proceedings  and  was  defeated  by  a  technicality. 

"Costs  £120." 

Publisher  persisted.  Reade  went  at  him  again,  em- 
ployed no  counsel  this  time,  and  was  victorious.  But  the 
judge,  with  manifest  partiality,  refused  him  costs. 

"  These  came  to  £90. 

"  Receipts  for  two  brilliant  works,  £60. 

"  Spent  in  protecting  them  from  fraudulent  appropriation,  £220. 
"  Punishment  for  producing  '  Christie  Johnstone '  and  '  Peg  WofEng- 
ton,'  £160." 

(N.B. — ^The  funny  part  of  this  is  that  in  his  righteous 
indignation  his  arithmetic  got  hopelessly  mixed ;  on  his 
own  lowing  his  total  costs  were  £210,  his  total  receipts, 
£60.     His  penalty,  therefore,  £150.) 

Then  follows  a  dismal  groan. 

"After  Reade  had  defeated  this  publisher,  the  other 
publishers  held  aloof  from  him.  For  years  he  could  find 
no  publisher,  and  was  obliged  to  publish  on  commission. 
The  weekly  papers,  being  all  under  trade  influence,  per- 
eistently  decried  his  works,  and  insulted  him.     But  he 


Reade  versus  Bentley.  227 

went  doggedly  on,  publishing  his  own  works  in  vol.  form, 
and  learning  their  commercial  value." 

Mr.  George  Bentley,  and  the  Publishing  Trade  gener- 
ally, will,  we  trust,  pardon  this  inclusion  of  a  character- 
istic memorandum.  Into  the  merits  of  our  author's  quai-rel 
with  the  publishers  it  would  be  superfluous  to  enter,  if, 
indeed,  such  a  quarrel  existed  outside  the  region  of  his 
sensitive  imagination.  That  he  benefited  is  most  improb- 
able. Mrs.  Seymour  gave  him  practical  assistance  of  a 
very  valuable  kind,  but  he  belonged  to  the  class  of  penny- 
wise  gentry  who  leave  the  pounds  to  shift  for  themselves; 
and  it  is  a  fact  that  he  omitted  to  square  accounts  with 
the  late  Mr.  Trtibner  for  so  many  years  that  his  claim  was 
actually  statute-run.  Fortunately  for  him,  he  had  to  deal 
with  a  man  of  scrupulous  integrity,  and  thus  obtained  his 
own.  But  it  is  none  the  less  true  that  he  was  totally  un- 
conscious of  Trubner  being  in  his  debt,  just  as  sometimes 
he  would  forget  for  twelve  or  eighteen  months  to  draw 
the  check  for  his  Fellowship  from  the  Bursar  of  Magdalen. 

From  a  business  point  of  view,  nevertheless,  he  was  fully 
justified  in  rescuing  his  copyrights  from  Messrs.  Bentley. 
At  present  these  books  are  a  genuine  literary  property, 
and  have  a  steady  sale.  In  short,  if  at  the  moment  penal- 
ized to  the  extent  of  £150,  and  put  to  the  excitement  and 
trouble  of  two  lawsuits,  he  amply  recouped  himself.  More- 
over, his  victory  was  a  memorable  one,  since,  whereas  in 
the  first  action,  which  failed,  he  employed  as  his  counsel, 
Mr.,  afterwards  Mr.  Justice,  Lush,  a  lawyer  second  only 
to  Cockburn,  who,  nevertheless,  broke  down,  in  the  second 
action  he  trusted  solely  to  the  forensic  genius  of  Charles 
Reade,  barrister  at  law  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  who  never  before 
had  held  a  brief,  but  who  none  the  less  triumphed  where 
Lush  had  failed. 


228  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

Simultaneously  with  the  publication  of  "  Christie  John- 
stone "  he  sat  down  and  wrote  a  critique  of  the  book.  He 
styles  it  in  his  MS. 

"CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE, 

AN 

AUTO-CRITICISM." 

Needless,  perhaps,  to  add  it  was  simply  21.  jeu  d^esprit, 
never  intended,  or  offered,  for  publication,  being,  indeed, 
simply  the  author's  candid  notion  of  what  an  honest  critic 
would  say  were  he  disposed  to  avoid  the  minimum  alike 
of  praise  and  blame.     It  runs  thus: 

"CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 

"  A   DKAMATIC    STOEY. 

"  The  origin  of  this  title  appears  to  be  the  quantity  of 
pure  dialogue  in  the  work. 

"  To  those  effects  in  which  the  drama  shines  the  volume 
before  us  makes  less  pretension  than  three  novels  out  of 
four. 

"We  encourage  this  author  to  try  again;  but  must  tell 
him  he  has  much  to  learn  before  he  can  hope  to  shine  in 
this  sort  of  fiction. 

"  To  write  a  good  novel,  a  supple  and  changeable  style 
is  required;  but,  above  all,  some  warmth  of  imagination: 
this  it  is  which  clothes  incidents  with  those  glowing  de- 
tails that  make  them  vivid  and  interesting. 

"  The  author  of  *  Cliristie  Johnstone '  is  full  of  details — 
but  they  are  barren  details.  He  deals  in  those  minutiae 
which  are  valuable  according  to  the  hand  that  mixes  them ; 
but  he  has  not  the  art  of  mixing  his  materials.  Hence 
the  compound,  with  some  exceptions,  is  dry  and  lumpy. 


Beade  versus  Bentley.  229 

"This  is  to  be  the  more  regretted  as  the  materials  are 
in  themselves  decidedly  good. 

"We  have  in  this  country  some  dozen  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen who  have  long  ago  written  themselves  dry;  but 
any  one  of  whom  would  have  made  a  charming  story  with 
Mr.  Reade's  ideas. 

"  The  plot,  which  is  of  that  arbitrary  kind  that  befits 
a  play  rather  than  a  story,  can  be  disposed  of  in  few 
words: 

"  Like  all  weak  plots,  it  runs  in  two  channels,  which  are 
more  independent  than  in  rightly  constructed  fiction, 
whether  story  or  play. 

"  A  young,  rich,  handsome,  clever  Lord  is  ill  and  un- 
happy. He  suspects  as  the  cause  Lady  Barbara  Sinclair's 
cruelty;  but  Saunders,  his  factotum,  suspects  his  Lord's 
liver,  and  calls  in  Dr.  Aberford,  who,  defying  drugs,  treats 
him  as  St.  Luke  might,  and  recommends  him  to  make  ac- 
quaintance with  the  lower  orders,  to  hear  and  relieve  their 
more  substantial  sorrows,  to  feel  for  them,  and  work  like 
them.  Off  goes  my  Lord  to  Newhaven,  and  goes  in  for 
charity  and  perspiration.  There  Saunders,  sent  to  catch 
lower  orders,  secures  two  beautiful  young  fishwives. 

"  One  of  these,  Christie  Johnstone,  catechises  our  Vis- 
count, and  draws  out  his  spark  of  enthusiasm,  whose  ex- 
istence neither  he  nor  Saunders  suspected. 

"She  then  puts  him  on  the  road  of  charity;  he  learns 
his  first  lesson  about  real  afilictions  from  a  fish -widow, 
and  this  scene,  showing  the  man  of  society,  whose  heart 
is  in  him  but  asleep,  with  the  woman  of  flesh  and  blood 
and  sorrows,  is  well  written,  though  exaggerated. 

"In  the  course  of  time  Lord  Ipsden,  after  a  long  and 
fruitless  search  for  adventures,  heads  a  party  of  fishermen 
and  relieves  a  distressed  vessel  in  a  gale  of  wind. 


280  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

"But  in  the  meantime  he  has  fallen  in  with  his  cousin 
Lady  Barbara,  and  revived  Lis  hopes.  These  hopes  soon 
lead  to  mortification ;  for  the  lady,  a  pupil  of  Mr.  T.  Car- 
lyle,  has  discovered  a  male  pupil,  and  this  pair  run  down 
the  age  together;  and  Lord  Ipsden,  whom  she  has  always 
considered  a  mere  saunterer,  finds  himself  de  trap.  So  he 
demolishes  the  earnest  man  in  argument,  and  finds  himself 
still  more  de  trap. 

"He  quits  her  for  a  week  ;  but  meeting  her  accidentally 
on  Leith  sands,  is  received  graciously.  She  tells  him  laugh- 
ingly that  the  earnest  man  has  received  his  congk,  for  run- 
ning faster  than  herself  from  a  bull ;  and  bursts  into 
rapturous  applause  of  an  heroic  action  she  relates,  and  so 
embellishes  that  his  Lordship  only  just  recognizes  his  own 
feat.  Her  enthusiasm  and  his  confusion  are  interrupted 
by  the  sudden  arrival  of  the  identical  skipper  who  had 
been  saved.  This  man  pours  out  his  manly  gratitude  and 
sheers  off.  Her  ladyship,  a  fine,  generous  creature,  though 
a  goose,  laughs,  cries,  makes  the  amende,  and  the  rest  may 
be  imagined. 

"  The  other  thread  of  the  story  is  the  loves  of  Christie 
Johnstone  and  an  enthusiastic  young  painter  of  genius. 
This  personage  has  all  the  weakness  as  well  as  intellect  of 
a  great  artist.  His  mother  is  determined  to  separate  the 
lovers,  and  the  poor  eloquent  vacillator  is  bandied  about 
like  a  shuttlecock  between  two  or  three  unintellectual 
women  with  more  iron  wills  than  he,  till  we  are  ready  to 
throw  the  book  at  his  head,  and  bid  him  pass  it  on  to  the 
writer. 

"  At  last  Christie  Johnstone  finds  all  this  out  by  arriv- 
ing suddenly  on  a  stormy  dialogue  between  the  artist  and 
his  mother;  and  her  pride  and  delicacy  instantly  close  the 
discussion  and  prevent  the  rupture.     She  drops  the  ring 


lieade  versus  Bentley.  231 

of  betrothal  between  the  mother  and  son,  and  ends  the 
amour  by  gesture  and  silence  that  have  something  im- 
pressive. 

"But  her  spirits  and  health  suffer,  and  she  pines 
secretly. 

"  The  young  artist  is  about  to  leave  for  England,  and 
would  fain  part  friends;  but  Christie  dismisses  him  with 
a  hauteur  which  ill  represents  her  real  feelings. 

"  Not  long  after,  all  Newhaven  is  watching  a  swimmer, 
who,  it  appears,  is  in  the  habit  of  going  out  to  the  roads 
and  back.  One  spirit,  quicker  than  the  rest,  compares  the 
time,  the  tide,  and  other  circumstances,  and  doubts  the 
swimmer's  safety.  This  is  Christie,  who  throws  off  her 
listlessness,  and  with  her  brother  darts  down  to  the  pier, 
and  goes  out  in  a  boat  amidsj;  the  jeers  of  the  others;  be- 
fore, however,  she  has  made  her  first  tack,  the  whole  town 
has  come  to  her  opinion,  and  it  is  in  front  of  three  thou- 
sand spectators  that  she  with  difficulty  and  dexterity  saves 
her  lover  without  discovering  his  identity,  which  her  broth- 
er, who  hates  him,  is  anxious  to  conceal  from  her. 

"  The  feat  has  been  seen  by  Lord  Ipsden  and  Lady  Bar- 
bara from  the  shore;  and  Mrs.  Gatty,  the  artist's  mother, 
who  had  learned  in  the  heat  of  the  business  that  it  was 
her  son,  has  fainted  and  been  carried  to  Christie  John- 
stone's house. 

"  Thus  a  dramatic  close  is  prepared. 

"  Christie  appears  on  shore,  her  color  and  spirits  re- 
stored by  a  brave  action  ;  the  mother  comes  from  behind 
one  of  the  groups  that  were  discussing  the  feat;  the  boy 
comes  up  with  his  hair  dripping,  and  Christie's  name  in  his 
mouth. 

"  The  mother  sees  him  and  runs  to  him. 

"  Christie  runs  too,  and,  no  longer  mistress  of  herself,  in 


232  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

going  to  fling  her  arms  round  liim,  flings  them  as  it  hap- 
pens round  her  competitor,  Mrs.  Gatty. 

"  The  old  lady,  a  mighty  stern  sort  of  body,  is  still  a 
woman  ;  she  cannot  resist  this  ;  her  heart  speaks  louder 
than  her  prudence  and  her  years,  and  she  embraces  her 
daughter;  a  fisherman  blubbers,  and  everybody  is  happy, 
not  excepting  tho  sour  critic  —  who  finds  himself  at  the 
end  of  the  talc. 

"Incidental  to  the  story  is  an  episode  on  a  drowned 
fisherman,  and  the  manner  in  which  the  calamity  is  broken 
to  his  wife. 

"  This  is  well  imagined,  but  in  the  telling  of  it  the  true 
oil  of  fiction  is  somewhat  wanting. 

"  We  have  also  a  description  of  two  contemporaneous 
picnics  on  an  island.  One  qf  them  is  composed  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen;  the  other  of  fishermen  and  fishwives.  It 
is  covertly  and  not  without  plausibility  conveyed,  that  of 
the  two  the  snobs  are  the  only  pretenders  to  intellect  and 
aavoir  vivre  in  their  amusements. 

"In  short,  this  writer  has  clearly  a  quick  eye  for  all 
that  is  good  and  clever  in  the  lower  classes  ;  we  welcome 
his  aid,  our  own  organs  of  vision  having  more  than  once 
failed  to  make  these  discoveries.  And  we  thank  him  still 
more  for  his  forbearance  ;  they  who  hold  his  sentiment 
seldom  let  us  go  to  bed  till  they  have  told  us  that  cor- 
duroy is  virtue,  and  broadcloth  and  soap  are  vice:  and  we 
are  in  some  terror  lest  through  bearing  this  too  often  we 
may  end  our  rational  career  by  believing  it. 

"  The  author  of  *  Christie  Johnstone'  has  good  thoughts 
which  he  could  clothe  with  logic,  but  he  cannot  yet  dress 
them  in  the  garb  fiction  requires.  He  should  associate 
himself  with  one  of  our  authoresses  ;  we  have  several 
whose  abilities  are  his  counterpart.     He  has  plenty  to  tell 


Heade  versus  Bentley.  233 

us  and  cannot  tell  it;  they  have  nothing  to  say  and  say  it 
to  perfection. 

"  The  pair  would  produce  a  novel  considerably  above 
the  average;  something  we  should  read  with  pleasure  and 
lay  aside  with  delight." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

VICTOBY  ! 

We  now  come  to  the  supreme  crisis  in  the  literary  life 
of  Charles  Reade — the  moment  when  he  awoke  to  find 
himself  famous. 

His  quasi-home  in  Piccadilly  had  been  a  chronic  source 
of  annoyance  in  every  way.  Its  nominal  tenant  was  Mr. 
Samo,  Mrs.  Seymour's  husband,  but  this  individual  was 
perpetually  in  hot  water.  Execution  succeeded  execu- 
tion, each  paid  out  with  greater  difficulty  than  its  prede- 
cessor; until  at  last,  with  the  design  of  securing  compara- 
tive peace,  Charles  Reade  was  induced  himself  to  become 
tenant  of  a  spacious  mansion  in  Bolton  RoW.  Thither 
Mrs.  Seymour  moved  her  furniture  and  her  lodgers,  Cap- 
tain Curling  and  Mr,  Augustus  Braham.  It  was  an  eccentric 
arrangement,  but,  thanks  to  a  thorough  understanding  be- 
tween all  the  parties  concerned,  worked  admirably. 

As  for  Samo  the  impecunious,  he  discovered  a  suitable 
retreat  below  stairs.  He  was  now,  poor  man,  no  longer  in 
his  own  house,  and  therefore  at  last  free  from  the  atten- 
tions of  bailiffs.  He  enjoyed  both  ample  provender  and 
peace  of  mind,  and  it  speaks  volumes  for  the  relations  sub- 
sisting between  his  wife  and  her  landlord,  that  he  regarded 
the  latter  as  his  true  and  honest  friend,  and  never  evinced 
a  soup^on  of  jealousy  or  suspicion. 

It  was  in  Bolton  Row  that  Charles  Reade  completed  his 
Magnum  Opus.   "  Gold  "  had  previously  taken  fairly  with 


Victory !  235 

a  Dmry  Lane  audience.  The  critics  decried  it  as  a  failure, 
but  the  length  of  its  run  disproved  their  verdict.  It  was  a 
thorough  success,,  the  lessee  of  Drury  Lane,  in  the  six 
weeks'  run,  netted  a  clear  profit  of  £1500,  and  it  provided 
an  important  element  for  the  great  novel. 

"  It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend  "  may  be  said  without 
qualification  to  have  been  the  keystone  of  its  author's 
fortune.  Up  to  1856,  when  it  first  saw  the  light,  the 
public  had  held  its  judgment  in  suspense.  "  Peg  Wofiing- 
ton  "  and  "  Christie  Johnstone  "  both  paved  the  way  for 
their  splendid  successor.  They  prepared  the  minds  of 
readers  on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic  for  the  sequel.  They 
had  given  eclat  to  their  author's  name,  and,  indeed,  the 
public  was  already  on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation  for  his 
next  book.  "We  must  bear  in  mind  that  novelists  of  merit 
at  that  time  of  day  were  but  few.  Bulwer,  Dickens,  Sam- 
uel Warren,  Thackeray,  headed  the  list;  and  Mrs.  Beecher 
Stowe  had  proved  herself  to  be  a  one-book  author.  Boys 
read  Smedley  and  Lever ;  sentimentalists  Miss  Yonge, 
while  Jerrold  and  Albert  Smith  had  their  admirers.  But 
George  Eliot  and  Wilkie  Collins,  Ouida  and  Miss  Brad- 
don,  were  as  yet  unknown,  and  the  public  had  not  as  yet 
been  surfeited  with  fiction. 

The  book  appeared.  It  might  be  presupposed  from  its 
colossal  and  lasting  success  that  it  was  welcomed  by  the 
critics  with  a  chorus  of  praise.  Not  so;  criticism  in  this 
country  has  always  exhibited  the  beautiful  incertitude  of 
cricket,  and  so  perverted  is  its  judgment,  that,  not  infre- 
quently, a  book  which  is  roundly  rated  has  a  better  chance 
of  gripping  the  public  than  one  which  is  indiscriminately 
praised. 

Nevertheless,  the  reviews  were  not  all  censorious;  there 
were  some  few  honorable  exceptions.     Here  and  there 


236  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

might  bo  discovered  a  pen  with  sufficient  intelligence  to 
appreciate  dramatic  narration  which  happened  to  be  dra- 
matic. For  example,  The  Critic,  then  in  the  hands  of  the 
late  Sergeant  Cox,  a  publicist- gifted  with  rare  brains  and 
unimpeachable  honesty,  wrote  thus:  '^^ Paulo  majora  cana- 
mus  /  Mr.  Reade's  novel,  with  the  quaint  and  proverbial 
title  *  It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend,'  is  one  of  the  very  few 
first-rate  works  of  fiction  which  Ave  have  met  with  in  our 
life.  It  is  a  principle  -  novel,  aimed  against  a  system,  and 
that  system  one  of  the  most  crying  evils  which  aflfect  man- 
kind and  disgrace  humanity;  it  attacks  that  code  of  dis- 
cipline which  converts  error  into  crime,  crime  into  mad- 
ness; which  makes  pickpockets  burglars,  and  burglars  mur- 
derers; which  under  the  pretence  of  philanthropy  inflicts 
tortures  beside  which  the  most  cruel  refinements  of  the 
Inquisition  were  as  gentle  mercies;  which  treats  the  crim- 
inal as  a  machine  to  be  systematized  and  not  as  a  soul  to 
be  saved;  it  is  levelled  at  the  solitary,  separate,  and  silent 
system  of  treating  criminals." 

It  would  constitute  a  tax  on  patience  were  we  to  give 
in  exte)iso  the  entirety  of  this  admirable,  because  just, 
criticism.  We  cannot,  however,  forbear  appending  its 
utterances  on  Mr.  Eden,  Charles  Reade's  model  parson: 

"  The  jail  scenes  give  occasion  for  the  introduction  of  a 
character  which  we,  without  hesitation,  pronounce  to  be  one 
of  the  very  best  in  the  whole  range  of  fiction.  This  is  the 
chaplain  of  the  jail,  Mr.  Eden;  a  man  such  as  there  are,  we 
fear,  but  few  in  existence — a  man,  who,  if  he  lived,  would 
be  one  of  those  chosen  few  whom  the  Almighty  sends 
upon  the  earth  to  soften  the  lot  of  poor,  erring,  miserable 
sinners;  one  of  those  very  few  who  constitute,  as  it  were, 
the  salt  of  the  human  species.  It  will  almost  invariably  be 
found  that  where  the  novelist  introduces  a  clergyman  upon 


Victoi'y!  23'? 

the  scene,  he  falls  either  into  one  or  other  of  two  errors: 
either  he  represents  him  in  an  unfavorable  light,  as  a  cant- 
ing, worldly-minded  hypocrite,  whose  practices  are  the 
very  reverse  of  his  professions;  or  else  he  makes  a  saint 
of  him,  without  one  single  feature  of  humanity  in  him, 
from  the  gloria  round  his  head  down  to  the  soles  of  his 
martyred  feet.  Now,  Mr.  Eden  is  a  man  —  a  man  of  like 
passions  with  us  all  —  a  man  who  feels  for  another,  and 
sympathizes  with  his  weakness  because  he  knows  how 
weak  his  own  heart  is." 

In  contrast  to  this  straightforward  criticism  we  have  the 
acidulated  analysis  of  TJie  Saturday  lieview.  That  paper 
was  then  at  its  best.  It  was  launched  by  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge men  as  a  corrective  of  the  Scotticism  and  Hiber- 
nicism  of  the  press;  its  contributors  were  scholars  and  gen- 
tlemen, not  short-hand  writers  and  penny-a-liners  from 
Edinburgh  and  Dublin.  But  in  its  zeal  for  thoroughness 
and  accuracy  it  not  infrequently  became  pedantic,  and 
when  it  tried  to  be  satirical  succeeded  only  in  being  inso- 
lent. At  the  same  time  it  must  be  freely  admitted  that 
The  Saturday  lieview  of  1856  and  the  succeeding  years 
revived  the  dormant  science  of  criticism,  and  dealt  a  heavy 
blow  to  the  crass  sciolism  which  then  as  always  infests 
the  London  press.  That  it  fell  foul  of  Charles  Reade  is 
hardly  to  the  credit  of  its  prescience,  yet  even  in  its  cen- 
sure it  could  not  without  awkwardness  conceal  an  under- 
current of  compulsory  admiration. 

The  following  are  excerpts  from  its  prolonged  half-com- 
plimentary snarl  :  "  The  plot  is  full  of  obvious  faults,  and 
the  language  is  disfigured  with  affectation.  It  is  in  every 
way  an  uncommon  book,  uncommon  in  the  power  it  dis- 
plays, and  the  variety  of  knowledge  it  contains — uncom- 
mon in  the  beauty  and  force  of  its  language,  when  the 


238  Memoir  of  Charles  Iteade. 

author  forgets  to  be  affected,  uncommon  in  the  interest  it 
excites  and  sustains.  The  plot,  as  we  have  said,  is  faulty. 
*It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend'  contains  in  fact  three 
stories;  not  separated  in  form,  but  really  quite  distinct,  and 
hung  together  by  a  very  slender  thread.  The  first  is  a  tale 
of  bucolic  love;  the  second  is  the  history  of  a  badly  man- 
aged jail ;  the  third  relates  the  adventures  of  two  Austra- 
lian gold  diggers.  Each  has  great  merits  in  itself,  but 
the  three  do  not  combine  to  make  a  whole.  .  .  .  Every 
chapter  throughout  the  work  is  so  written  that  we  can- 
not stop  when  we  have  once  begun  it.  .  .  .  Mr.  Reade 
makes  his  miners  talk  as  miners  would  talk,  not  like  gen- 
tlemen and  poets  in  shooting-jackets.  This  seems  to  be 
the  great  gift  which  Mr.  Reade  enjoys — he  can  describe.  If 
he  paints  a  country  girl,  she  is  like  one,  not  like  a  marchion- 
ess with  the  hat  and  crook  of  a  shepherdess.  His  magis- 
trates, navvies,  and  thieves  move,  talk,  and  behave  as  we 
know  they  ought  to.  Of  imagination  in  the  sense  of 
creation  {sic)  there  is  not  in  this  book  any  great  trace,  .  .  . 
but  it  is  not  once  in  a  year — or  once  in  five  years — that  we 
have  a  fiction  given  us  so  wide  in  its  range,  so  true  to  life 
as  this,  or  containing  a  character  so  beautiful  as  that  of 
Susan  Merton." 

"  Not  guilty,  but  he  mustn't  do  it  again ;"  or,  perhaps, 
rather,  "  guilty,  yet  he  may  do  it  again,"  such  is  the  chame- 
leon criticism  of  this  Saturday  Heviewer.  The  man  evi- 
dently did  not  know  his  own  mind;  he  was  writhing  under 
a  spell  and  struggling  vainly  to  be  free;  he  meant  to  curse, 
but  drifted  off  into  blessing. 

The  deader,  a  paper  of  some  literary  pretensions,  advo- 
cating Agnosticism  and  extreme  Radicalism,  follows  suit, 
but  in  a  different  vein.  "  The  matter-of-fact  romance,"  it 
is  prepared  graciously  to  admit,  "  possesses  many  qualities 


Victory!  239 

which  will  fix  the  attention  of  novel  readers,  and  above  all  it 
has  the  quality  of  readableness."  After  which  piece  of  plat- 
itudinous patronage,  it  at  once  darts  off  into  spite.  "  With- 
out being  peculiarly  fastidious,"  it  avers,  "  the  reader  will 
be  frequently  annoyed  by  certain  defects  of  matter  and  man- 
ner, but  even  the  most  fastidious  will  go  through  [sic)  the 
three  volumes,  interested,  sometimes  excited.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Reade  is  a  playwright  rather  than  a  dramatist.  He  shows 
us  some  of  the  dramatist  in  *  Susan '  and  '  George  ;'  but 
the  playwright  predominates  throughout  the  volumes.  It 
is  seen  in  the  constant  and  irritating  striving  for  '  effect.' 
He  not  only  shows  us  that  he  is  working  up  to  a  situation 
— a  tableau  on  which  the  curtain  may  fall — but  shows  us 
the  puerile  efforts  at  effect  in  devices  of  printing,  in  tirades 
of  rant,  in  foolish  woodcuts  meant  to  be  impressive.  He 
can  write  so  simply,  and  writes  so  well  when  he  writes 
simply,  that  his  friends  should  warn  him  against  unworthy 
imitations  of  the  French  novelists.  Short  chapters  of  a 
few  lines,  and  paragraphs  of  a  few  words,  or  sentences  in 
capitals,  really  are  not  effective,  but  only  show  that  they 
were  meant  to  be  so.  When  he  does  not  show  us  that  he 
is  trying  to  be  effective,  few  writers  are  more  so.  When 
he  is  not  indulging  in  small  affectations,  he  writes  clearly, 
eloquently,  picturesquely.  His  style  is  graceful  and  strong. 
His  power  of  telling  a  story,  not  descriptively  but  dramati- 
cally, is  considerable;  and  he  has  a  perception  of  what  is 
healthy  in  human  nature,  especially  in  women.  With  these 
qualities  we  ought  to  see  him  produce  a  novel  that  would 
not  simply  please  the  iinfastidious.  '  It  is  Never  Too  Late 
to  Mend '  is  such  a  novel,  though  not  taking  a  high  rank  in 
its  class.  iVb  one  will  reread  it !  The  author  has  bestowed 
great  pains  upon  it,  but  he  has  been  less  careful  with  his 
characters  than  with  his  details,  and  more  solicitous  of  ef- 


240  Memoir  of  Charles  Iteade. 

fects  than  of  effect.  What  are  the  qualities  which  made 
the  *  Vicar  of  Wakefield,'  *  Tom  Jones,' '  Pride  and  Preju- 
dice,' *Ivanhoe,'  *  The  Scarlet  Letter,'  works  so  rereadable  ? 
Not  their  incidents.  Not  their  'effects;'  but  the  quiet, 
stealthy  grasp  of  the  imagination  and  the  affections." 

The  meaning  of  this  farrago  seems  to  be  (1)  that  Gold- 
smith despised  situation,  not  to  say  plot.  That  allegation, 
teste  the  Lyceum  Theatre,  is  untrue. 

(2)  That '  Tom  Jones '  by  its  stealthy  grasp  of  the  affec- 
tions, beats  Charles  Reade's  chef  cTceuvre.  To  wliich  we 
may  reply  that  the  pictures  of  some  among  the  human  af- 
fections in  the  said  *Tom  Jones'  resemble  those  of  the 
canine  species. 

(3)  That  *Ivanhoe'  and  the  'Scarlet  Letter'  are  un- 
dramatic.  This  again  is  false,  albeit  both  are  less  dramatic 
than  the  work  which  Charles  Reade  always  terms  in  his 
MS.  '  Sera  nunqiiam,^  his  late,  but  not  too  late,  master- 
piece. 

(4)  That  'Pride  and  Prejudice'  being  the  very  opposite 
of  all  Charles  Reade's  work,  is  on  that  account  superior. 
Well,  some  people  like  brandy;  some  weak  tea;  but  it 
won't  do  to  argue  that  weak  tea  is  stronger  than  brandy. 

The  rest  of  the  reviews  took  up  the  same  style  of  para- 
ble, evidently  in  indecision  whether  to  heave  "  'arf  a  brick  " 
at  the  venturesome  author  who  had  broken  new  ground, 
or  to  anticipate  the  public  enthusiasm.  In  the  United 
States,  criticism,  as  a  science,  was  in  its  infancy;  and  most 
of  the  leading  journals  contented  themselves  with  an  ex- 
haustive analysis  of  the  plot,  one  among  the  number,  The 
JBoston  Daily  Evening  Traveller^  devoting  no  less  than 
three  columns  of  close  print  to  this  achievement.  Had  the 
voice  of  the  press,  whether  cis-Atlantic  or  trans-Atlantic 
prevailed,  no  doubt  the  book  would  have  fallen  stillborn. 


Victory!  241 

It  happens,  however,  that  the  ultima  ratio  does  not  lie  with 
quill  drivers,  whether  of  the  highest  culture,  such  as  those 
on  Tlie  Saturday  Beview,  or  of  the  shoddiest  mediocrity, 
the  briefless  barrister  and  the  shorthand  writer.  Beyond 
these  feeble  voices  is  the  great  public,  for  whom  alone 
Charles  Reade  wrote,  and  this  supreme  critic  returned  no 
qualified  verdict.  Malgrh  the  prophets,  'It  is  Never  Too 
Late  to  Mend '  was  not  only  read,  but  reread,  and  not  only 
reread,  but  also  read  perennially.  The  book  was  triumphant. 
They  were  right  in  their  supposition,  that  this  work  had 
caused  its  author  the  severest  labor.  Later  on,  a  critic 
described  it  as  in  places  "verging  on  the  confines  of  farce." 
Yet  every  detail  was  verified.  Every  fact  was  obtained 
by  research  and  observation.  The  idle  allegation  of  care- 
lessness hurled  at  the  most  careful  of  writers  was  wholly 
unjustifiable,  for  in  truth  the  book  represents  more  than 
four  years'  toil,  and  its  literary  quality  is  beaten  out  by  no 
common  hand  on  no  common  anvil.  As  an  indication  of  the 
painstaking  energy,  we  might  almost  write  agony,  of  its 
creator,  we  may  fairly  quote  an  extract  from  a  brief  and 
hurried  letter  scribbled  from  the  Garrick  Club  to  Mrs.  Sey- 
mour, who  then  chanced  to  be  on  a  visit  to  her  brother-in- 
law,  Mr.  Gibson,  a  Scotch  clergyman  in  Selkirkshire.  The 
book  was  only  in  progress,  that  is  to  say  portions  of  each 
volume  were  outlined,  but  the  whole  was  unconnected. 
"  My  first  volume,"  he  writes,  "  will,  I  hope,  take  me  up  to 
the  death  of  Josephs.  By  which  means  in  the  second  I 
shall  quite  clear  the  Prison,  and  cut  well  into  the  other  in- 
terest. I  think  it  will  be  a  great  work,  much  abused^  no 
doubt — ^but,  a  reputation.  If  it  is  so,  remember,  I  never 
should  hare  effected  so  great  a  work  without  you.  The 
part  with  which  I  hope  to  please  as  well  as  dazzle  was  all 
written  in  your  presence,  every  word  of  it. 
11 


242  Memoir  of  Charles  Jieude. 

"  My  mother  is  delighted  with  Mr.  Edeu  ;  but  I  am  sor- 
ry to  say  she  likes  the  Jew  too.  So  that  throws  a  doubt 
upon  her  judgment." 

So  far  as  Mrs.  Seymour  is  concerned,  this  was  by  no 
means  the  language  of  compliment.  She  was  his  literary 
and  dramatic  partner,  and  with  her  he  discussed  his  plots, 
situations,  and  characters.  To  her  criticism  he  submitted 
his  dialogue.  She  possessed  the  faculty  of  perceiving  at 
a  glance  how  the  lines  would  play  and  how  each  chapter 
would  read.  To  term  her  part-author  would  be  to  exag- 
gerate ;  to  underrate  the  aid  she  afforded  would  be  an  in- 
justice. Those  who  knew  him  best  would  be  the  first  to 
bear  testimony  to  the  invaluable  services  rendered  through- 
out his  career  by  this  clever,  if  not  very  highly  cultured, 
woman. 

The  following,  also  to  Mrs.  Seymour,  who  apparently 
was  about  to  return  from  her  long  sojourn  in  Scotland  to 
their  joint  habitation  in  Bolton  Row,  seems  to  show  that, 
after  all,  and  in  spite  of  his  prophecy  that  *It  is  Never 
Too  Late  to  Mend '  would  constitute  the  basis  of  his  repu- 
tation, he  hardly  dared  expect  a  second  edition.  No  author 
ever  felt  so  acutely  the  lash  of  criticism.  A  syllable  of  de- 
traction in  his  eyes  covered  fatally  ajnultitude  of  lauda- 
tions, and  as  the  censors  had  elected  to  be  censorious,  his 
hopes  were  rudely  dashed,  and  barely  able  to  revive. 

"  I  am  hard  at  work,"  he  says,  "  punctually  and  steadily. 
I  really  believe  he  (Bentley)  is  going  into  a  Second  Edition 
next  week.  Criticisms  in  The  Critic  and  The  Spectator^ 
the  former  very  warm,  especially  in  praise  of  the  Prison 
business;  the  latter  also  warm  on  that  point,  but  disgusted 
with  Meadows  and  Levi.  So  that  if  I  listened  to  my  critics, 
there  is  nothing  somebody  or  other  would  not  cut  out,  and 
if  I  listened  again,  there  is  nothing  I  should  not  restore. 


Victory !  243 

"  There  is  an  old  Greek  story  of  a  painter  who  exposed 
his  picture  in  the  market-place  for  criticism.  'Here  is  a 
bit  of  black  chalk,'  said  he, '  mark  the  faults.'  The  multi- 
tude of  critics  marked  out  every  square  inch  of  the  picture. 
He  washed  off  the  marks.  *  Now  mark  the  beauties,'  said 
he.     The  critics  marked  every  square  inch  of  the  picture. 

"  I  never  realized  the  wisdom  of  this  story  until  now. 

"I  have  just  sent  Webster  a  note  consenting  to  treat  on 
his  terms,  for  that  drama  you  know. 

"Also  to  Bentley,  offering  to  purchase  the  copies  of 
'Woffington'  that  remain  on  hand.  So  you  see  I  have 
some  faith  in  my  ultimate  success;  all  depends  on  this: 
(1)  Whether  I  can  give  up  eating  too  much;  (2)  whether 
I  can  have  one  cheerful  sympathizing  soul  to  bear  me 
up. 

"  I  killed  Carlo  to-day  and  wept  sore,  snivelling,  but  not 
saving  his  life  any  more  for  that.  Snivelling  over  him 
and  killing  him,  syllable  by  syllable.  Pah !  isn't  it  sick- 
ening ? 

"  A  Brewer  is  High  Sheriff  for  our  county.  Yesterday 
he  gave  a  dinner  to  the  magistrates,  my  brother  among  the 
rest — cost  £600.  There  was  a  sugar-ship,  six  foot  high, 
full  rigged,  with  guns  !" 

It  is  superfluous  to  add  that  his  hesitating  prognostica- 
tion of  a  second  edition  was  verified.  It  would  be  grati- 
fying to  know  how  many  editions  both  in  England  and 
America  succeeded  it.  A  bookseller  at  Clifton,  three  years 
later,  informed  the  writer  of  these  lines  that  he  sold  more 
copies  of  "  It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend  "  than  of  "  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin ;"  probably  the  number  of  readers  could  only 
be  reckoned  by  the  million. 

In  the  following  January  an  Irish  lady  wrote  a  string 
of  inquiries  which  Charles  Reade  answered  as  follows: 


244  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

"  6  Bolton  Row,  Matfair,  Jan.  Y,  186Y. 

"  Madam, — The  details  in  question  are  founded  on  fact. 

"  Of  course  I  have  invented  many  things,  but  not  a  single  horror. 

"  The  Christian  clergyman  is  a  pure  fiction ;  there  was  no  such  creature 
in  that  place,  but  Mr.  Hawes  is  a  living  man.  He  has  murdered  his  fellow- 
creature  exactly  as  I  have  described,  has  suffered  three  months'  imprison- 
ment in  a  debtor's  prison,  and  is  now  abroad,  angry  with  the  Government, 
thoroughly  self-satisfied  and  un-bung,  though  not,  I  flatter  myself,  ungib- 
beted. 

"  Those  black  facts  have  been  before  the  public  before  ever  I  handled 
them ;  they  have  been  told,  and  tolerably  well  told,  by  many  chroniclers. 
But  it  is  my  business,  and  my  art,  and  my  duty,  to  make  you  ladies  and 
gentlemen  realize  things,  which  the  chronicler  presents  to  you  in  his  dim, 
and  cold,  and  shadowy  way ;  and  so  they  pass  over  your  mind  like  idle 
wind. 

*'  This  you  sometimes  call  '  being  harrowed,'  but  ask  yourselves  two 
questions : 

"(1)  Do  you  think  you  are  harrowed  one  tenth  part  as  much  as  I  have 
been ;  as  I  could  harrow  you  ? 

"  (2)  I,  one  tenth  part  as  much  as  Josephs,  who  died  under  the  harrow  ? 

"I  have  answered  your  questions  broadly.  I  will  do  better;  I  will  put 
it  in  your  power  to  test  that  part  of  my  story,  if  you  think  it  worth  while, 
and  it  is  well  worth  while. 

*'  I  will  send  you,  as  soon  as  I  can  lay  my  hand  on  it,  a  Blue  Book,  con- 
taining the  results  of  a  Royal  Commission  held  upon  a  certain  gaol  three 
years  ago.  Here  you  will  see  my  darker  facts,  and  many  more  deposed  to 
on  oath. 

"  Meantime,  if  you  or  any  of  your  friends  file  The  Thnes,  look  it  over 
from  the  6th  to  the  16th  September,  1853. 

"  I  am  glad  you  care  whether  these  things  are  true  or  false. 

"  You  have  done  wisely  and  well  to  come  to  me  to  know. 

"  I  am  obliged  by  your  kind  expressions ;  and  the  length  of  this  letter 
will,  I  trust,  show  you  that  I  am  not  indifferent  to  your  good  opinion.  I 
have  the  honor  to  be,  Yours  very  truly, 

"CUARLES   ReADK." 

It  was  a  curious  coincidence  that,  although  the  author 
of  "  It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend  "  here  affirms  with  em- 


Victory !  245 

phasis  that  there  was  no  Christian  clergyman  in  the  jails 
he  investigated  in  search  of  material,  one  of  the  jail  chap- 
lains on  whom  he  passed  this  censure  was  subsequently 
promoted  to  a  living  in  the  gift  of  the  Crown  for  his 
humanity  in  assisting  in  the  reform  of  a  too  rigorous  sys- 
tem within  the  walls  of  the  jail  wherein  he  ministered; 
and  that  this  same  gentleman  should  have  only  survived 
Charles  Reade  by  a  few  weeks.  His  defect  apparently 
lay  in  a  lack  of  preaching  power. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  VINDICATION   OF  SHAKESPEARE. 

We  have  hitherto  purposely  omitted  to  catalogue  Charles 
Reade's  minor  achievements  prior  to  the  issue  of  "  It  is 
Never  Too  Late  to  Mend,"  To  have  dwelt  on  small  suc- 
cesses and  yet  smaller  failures  would  have  been  to  distract 
the  eye  from  the  approaching  climax.  At  the  same  time, 
it  may  be  only  a  fitting  tribute  to  his  muse  to  mention 
some  among  his  ephemeral  works. 

"  Masks  and  Faces "  placed  his  name  forever  among 
English  dramatists.  Played  first  in  1852,  it  was  succeeded 
in  the  same  year  by  a  piece  called  "  The  Village  Tale  "  at 
the  Strand  Theatre.  The  year  following  witnessed  the 
production  of  "  Gold,"  a  drama  in  five  acts,  at  Druiy  Lane. 
This  was  the  precursor  of  his  yet  grander  drama  of  many 
years  later,  and  the  basis  of  the  third  volume  of  "It  is 
Never  Too  Late  to  Mend."  It  may  be  fairly  termed  a 
moderate  success,  since  it  saved  Mr.  Smith,  the  lessee  of 
Drury  Lane.  That  gentleman  was  so  hopelessly  involved 
that  he  contemplated  a  bolt  to  America — or  anywhere — 
immediately  upon  the  failure  of  Charles  Reade's  drama. 
After  the  first  night  he  prevailed  upon  himself  to  try  the 
result  of  the  opening  week;  and,  after  that  period  had 
elapsed,  began  to  feed  the  vultures  out  of  his  author's 
brains.  He  had  bargained  to  give  £20  a  week  and  a  box. 
This  he  adhered  to,  albeit  he  was  a  very  Ethelred  in  his 
payments.    "  Gold  "  not  only  cleared  him  of  the  birds  of 


A  Vindication  of  Shakespeare.  24T 

prey,  but  left  him  with  a  round  sum  in  his  pocket.  Yet 
the  critics  subsequently  reviled  the  play  as  a  failure! 

In  1854  he  collaborated  with  Tom  Taylor  in  "Two 
Loves  and  a  Life,"  and  also  in  "  The  King's  Rival,"  which 
was  produced  successfully  at  the  Princess'  Theatre;  while 
there  emanated  from  his  single  pen  in  1855  a  comediet- 
ta, styled  "  Nobs  and  Snobs,"  written  for  the  St.  James' 
Theatre ;  and  in  the  same  year  he  adapted  from  the  French 
"  The  Courier  of  Lyons,"  and  collaborated  with  Tom  Tay- 
lor in  "  The  First  Printer,"  which  was  played  at  the  Prin- 
cess' Theatre. 

1856  was  consecrated  to  his  great  novel,  and  after  that 
for  eight  years  he  ceased  to  write  for  the  stage. 

"  It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend  "  seems  to  have  exhausted 
his  energies,  so  much  so  that  men  were  found  to  prophesy 
that  he  would  prove  a  one-book  author.  He  wrote,  it  is 
true,  but  with  a  pen  that  had  for  the  nonce  lost  some  of 
its  vigor  and  its  charm.  "  The  Course  of  True  Love  Never 
did  Run  Smooth  "  was  indeed  a  f alling-off  after  his  glorious 
"  Sera  Niinqicam  /"  while  "  Cream,"  issued  from  the  press 
in  1858,  seemed  like  a  determined  effort  to  wreck  an  estab- 
lished reputation.  "  White  Lies,"  we  grant,  contained 
much  of  his  former  literary  quality.  He  wrote  it  to  order 
for  the  London  Journal,  and,  as  was  said  with  veracious 
acerbity  at  the  time,  tried  to  descend  to  the  level  of  a  ser- 
vant girl  and  shopboy  circulation.  He  nevertheless  con- 
trived so  to  charm  the  readers  of  the  London  Journal 
that  the  circulation  of  that  popular  weekly  quadrupled, 
and  when  the  book  was  published  at  his  own  risk  for  the 
libraries,  though  he  had  reason  enough  to  complain  that 
the  critics  were  no  friends  of  his,  it  proved  a  startling 
financial  success.  Certain  wiseacres  discovered  that  the 
Dtory  was  a  plagiarism  from  the  French,  and  then  pro- 


248  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

cceded  to  slaughter  tbc  author  on  that  hypothesis.  They 
were  wrong  in  their  premises,  if  not  in  their  conclusion, 
but  as  usual  had  not  the  honesty  to  confess  their  error. 
Others  derided  the  lack  of  incident  and  the  Gallicism  of 
a  drama  novel  whose  scene  is  laid  in  France  and  whose 
characters,  being  French,  ought,  one  would  suppose,  to 
utter  with  French  epigram,  emotion,  and  vivacity.  The 
author  deliberately  painted  a  French  book  with  French 
coloring.  But  this  was  too  much  for  the  British  critic  to 
comprehend.  He  railed  because  the  French  characters  did 
not  talk  conventional  English,  and  the  reading  public  seems 
to  have  believed  what  the  critics  aveiTed.  In  fact  the 
book  was  considered  to  be  a  failure,  yet  it  boasts  readers 
to  this  day,  its  best  justification. 

"  Love  me  Little,  Love  me  Long,"  which  followed 
"White  Lies,"  has  found  admirers,  but  not  by  the  shoal; 
while  the  "  Autobiography  of  a  Thief,"  with  "  Jack  of  all 
Trades,"  disappointed  those  myriads  on  either  side  of  the 
ocean  who  were  expecting  eagerly  another  work  worthy 
a  grand  mind. 

It  was  in  1858  that  Fraser  published  a  sensational  paper 
on  Shakespeare.  To  this  Charles  Reade  wrote  a  rejoinder. 
Whether  the  paper  in  question  was  offered  to  some  one  of 
the  magazines  cannot  be  determined.  It  may  have  been 
rejected  by  the  editor  of  Fraser  himself,  for  aught  we 
know,  rejoinders  not  being  always  acceptable  to  editorial 
amour  propre.  Anyhow,  it  never  has  seen  the  light,  and 
we  are  glad  to  be  able  to  lay  it  before  the  public  as  evi- 
dencing in  a  marked  degree  his  reverence  for  the  Bard  of 
Avon,  and  also  his  exalted  ideal  of  dramatic  excellence. 
It  displays  his  own  estimate  of  the  functions  of  the  drama- 
tist, no  less  than  of  the  intrinsic  dignity  of  the  drama. 
Those  who  are  careless  of  the  reputation  of  a  noble  art 


A  Vindication  of  Shakespeare.  249 

may  not  unprofitably  peruse  the  lofty  sentiments  of  one 
who  begged  that  on  his  tomb,  before  aught  else,  should 
be  graven  the  title  "Dramatist." 
.    The  essay  is  termed 

"SHAKESPEARE  AND  THE  STAGE, 

"a  criticism  of  a  criticism. 

"The  Fraser's  Magazine  for  last  month  has  a  smart 
article  on  *  Poets  and  Players.' 

"  The  writer  is  happily  unembarrassed  with  those  doubts 
that  beset  the  heavy  armed  soldier  of  letters,  who  thinks 
twice  before  he  decides,  as  far  as  in  him  lies,  subjects  wide 
and  deep. 

"  We  go  with  him  in  his  rebellion  against  that  domi- 
neering phrase  *  legitimate  drama.' 

"  The  moment  words,  the  conventional  not  actual  signs 
of  things,  waver  in  meaning,  falsehood  can  do  anything 
with  them;  truth  nothing  but  cut  them  out  of  her  vocabu- 
lary: and  legitimate  drama  has  been  convicted  before  a 
committee  of  the  House  of  Commons  of  meaning  so  many 
different  things  as  to  stand  for  nothing. 

"  We  should  be  sorry  to  throw  a  universal  slur  on  this 
article  of  Fraser's;  for  there  are  sprightly,  intelligent  sen- 
tences in  it;  but  men  must  stand  or  fall  by  their  sums 
total. 

"  Truths  pressed  into  the  service  of  error  lose  their  char- 
acter; and  we  have  truths  here  that  could  prove  their  alibi 
in  any  court  of  reason.  We  have  not  time  to  laugh  at 
what  we  have  paid  that  justice  to  before,  but  the  following 
conclusions  are,  we  think,  the  writer's  private  property; 
there  is  no  reason  why  they  should  not  remain  so. 

"  1.  'Shakespeare's  plays  are  not  good  acting  plays  for 
our  day.' 
11* 


250  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

"  The  only  argument  he  gives  us  for  this  monstrous  lit- 
tle proposition  is  an  intelligent  conjecture  that  comes  two 
hundred  years  too  late. 

"  This  is  the  point  of  it :  that  since  we  see  the  best  act- 
ing plays  are  those  wi'itten  for  certain  actors,  a  certain 
time,  etc.,  it  is  not  likely  a  play  written  for  Shakespeare's 
company,  ago,  and  audience  should  make  a  good  acting 
play  for  the  actors,  stage,  etc.,  of  the  middle  of  the  nine- 
teenth century:  in  other  words,  it  is  unlikely  that  Shake- 
speare should  be  a  wonderful  (or  unlikely)  man;  it  is  un- 
likely that  this  actor  writing  female  parts  for  '  little  scrub- 
by boys'  to  play  really  gave  them  Portia,  Rosalind,  and 
Lady  Macbeth,  which  they  could  not  play;  it  is  almost 
equally  unlikely  that  a  writer  in  Fraser  should  forget 
Shakespeare  was  acted  from  1790  to  1820,  with  ten  times 
the  effect  he  ever  produced  in  his  own  day;  and  that  gen- 
erally, though  he  hit  his  own  times,  he  has  hit  other  ages 
harder. 

"Yet  the  dramatic  success  of  Shakespeare  in  ages  not 
his  own  is  no  less  a  fact  than  this  weak  surmise  of  Fra- 
ser's  is  a  fact — and  the  difference  between  likely  facts  and 
unlikely  ones  is  only  this:  the  latter  are  to  be  the  more 
cherished,  for  they  have  the  greater  value.  It  is  by  them 
alone  we  are  to  correct  our  huge  mass  of  erroneous  expecta- 
tions ;  and  to  do  this  is  the  intellectual  business  of  a  sane 
man's  life. 

"Shakespeare's  contemporaries  were  great  upon  the 
stage:  but  Shakespeare  is  great  in  separating  himself 
from  their  fate;  he  has  distanced  the  bounds  of  their  un- 
doubted genius. 

"  Jonson  is  no  more.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  hold  the 
stage  now  by  one  claw  out  of  fifty-one,  *  The  Maids'  Trag- 
edy.'   Philip  Massinger  lives  on  the  stage  by  'A  New 


A  Vindication  of  Shakespeare.  251 

Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts;'  Otway  by  his  'Venice  Pre- 
served.' 

"  The  evidence  that  proves  these  their  only  good  acting 
plays  for  other  ages  than  their  own,  proves  far  more  in 
favor  of  'Macbeth,'  'Othello,'  'Lear,'  and  divers  other 
Shakespearian  plays,  which  draw  greater  houses  than  these, 
the  sole  permanent  hits  of  men  greater  in  dramatic  power 
than  any  Englishman  of  this  day. 

"It  is  an  error  in  comparing  the  inherent  scenic  attrac- 
tion of  an  old  play  Avith  a  new  one  to  forget  that  merit  is 
one  thing,  novelty  another. 

"  A  play  is  but  an  incarnate  story,  and  an  old  story  well 
told  must  yield  to  each  new  story  indifferently  told,  though 
it  shall  in  time  survive  each.  Supposing  it  true  that  all 
novels  compared  with  Scott's,  and  all  acted  plays  compared 
with  Shakespeare's,  are  as  smoke  to  fire,  we  should  yet 
read  weak  new  novels,  and  flock  to  feeble  plays.  Only  we 
should  not  return  to  these  vomits  as  we  do. 

"  The  Irelands  palmed  on  a  class,  Avhich  our  writer  thinks 
Shakespeare's  best  critics,  viz.,  upon  literary  critics,  a  manu- 
script play  by  Shakespeare;  it  was  read,  discussed:  an  an- 
tiquarian or  so  said  No!  most  of  the  critics  said  Yes!  and 
one  of  no  mean  fame.  Dr.  Parr,  fell  on  his  knees  before  the 
manuscript.  It  was  put  on  the  stage:  coal-heavers  and 
prentices  set  literary  criticisms  right  in  ten  minutes.  Why  ? 
The  stuffed  fish  thrown  down  on  a  bank  might  pass  for  a 
live  fish,  but  put  it  in  the  water.     No  ! 

"T^Ae  stage  is  Shakespeareh  home  ;  he  had  taught  these 
unlearned  persons,  prentices,  and  public  what  to  expect  in 
a  great  acting  play. 

"Ireland's  work  mimicked  his  language  and  deceived 
the  predecessors  of  this  gentleman,  with  names  as  great  as 
his  own;  biit  when  it  ventured  into  Shakespeare's  magic 


262  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

circle  tbe  false  spirit  evaporated.  We  will  now  tell  this 
writer,  tbe  Irelauds,  and  their  conceited  dupes,  and  all 
cliques,  past,  present,  and  to  come,  what  would  happen 
were  a  great  play,  brother  to  *  Macbeth '  and  '  Othello,'  the 
soi-disants,  bad  acting  plays  of  Shakespeare,  to  be  really 
disinterred.  So  long  as  it  was  only  printed  and  read  there 
would  be  differences  of  opinion:  all  the  literary  critics 
would  be  more  or  less  disgusted  with  its  faults  as  a  literary 
composition.  We  should  come  to  the  spire  with  our  two- 
foot  rules,  and  should  talk  of  the  '  evident  traces  of  genius,' 
and  the  'frigid  conceits,'  and  mere  bombast  with  which 
here  and  there  the  'writer's  most  successful  efforts  are 
marred,'  etc.,  etc. — all  of  which  would  be  perfectly  true — 
in  the  closet. 

"  It  would  then  pass  through  the  stage  door,  and  come 
a  new  thing  into  fair  competition  with  Sir  E.  Bulwer  and 
others,  who  write  what  Fraser  justly  calls  good  acting 
plays;  it  would  not  defeat  these  writers:  it  would  anni- 
hilate them. 

"  The  lawyer  would  leave  his  quibbles;  the  philosopher, 
if  there  is  one,  his  speculations;  the  divine  his  commenta- 
ries; the  sot  his  cups;  the  actors  of  other  theatres  their  de- 
serted stages;  the  great  the  Swedish  thrush,  to  hear  the 
true  nightingale  sing  at  home. 

"  For  years  and  years  and  years  the  theatre  that  held  it 
would  be  crammed  to  the  ceiling  with  this  single  attrac- 
tion. 

"The  manager  would  make  a  fortune,  and  running  sly 
would  sell  to  some  bolder  speculator,  who  would  make  a 
fortune  after  him,  to  his  disgust;  and  at  last  a  miracle 
would  top  all  these  marvels,  a  reviewer  who  has  seen  in  a 
vision,  not  in  a  theatre,  that  there  are  as  good  acting  plays 
in  this  planet  as  Shakespeare's  would  see  himself  in  the 


A  Vindication  of  Shalcespeare^  263 

wrong,  and  would  find  that  Shakespeare,  actor  and  poet, 
knows  the  business  side  of  his  business  better  than  we 
critics  have  as  yet  known  any  part  of  a  part  of  ours. 

"  2.  Our  writer  *  cannot  think  that  Shakespeare,  were  he 
flourishing  now,  would  write  for  the  stage.' 

"  This  surmise  springs  from  an  idea  that  the  stage  has 
fixed  intellectual  limits,  and  a  witling  of  Fraser  has  dis- 
covered what  they  are.  But  it  is  not  so:  the  stage  is  no 
more  answerable  for  the  bulk  of  its  present  faults  than 
paper  and  ink  are  answerable  for  bad  books,  and  clever 
monthly  or  quarterly  twaddle. 

"  The  stage  was  what  man  made  it,  is  what  man  makes 
it,  and  shall  be  what  man  shall  make  it.  Shakespeare  re- 
divivus  would  write  for  the  stage  now,  as  then;  but  now, 
as  then,  he  would  find  it  one  thing  and  leave  it  another. 
He  would  write  it  up  to  him,  not  himself  down  to  it. 

"  The  German  critic  who  thinks  Shakespeare  was  not 
specially  a  dramatic  poet  has  not  read  the  man's  works. 

"Shakespeare  tried  the  other  experiment  in  an  octavo 
volume  of  undramatic  poems,  larger  than  the  volumes  with 
which  great  poetic  reputations  have  been  made  and  ought 
to  be  made. 

"  But  those  dreamy  dunces  bring  simple  ignorance  or 
simple  conjecture  against  fact! 

"  Macaulay  has  beaten  Shakespeare's  head  off  at  Roman 
stories  in  verse  ;  but  who,  novelty  apart,  can  try  a  fall  with 
him  at  home,  i.  e.,  upon  the  stage.  If  Moses  was  the  law- 
giver, Shakespeare  is  the  dramatist  of  dramatists. 

"  3.  '  The  true  reason  why  rank,  intelligence,  and  educa- 
tion do  not  go  to  see  Shakespeare  acted,  is  that  they  stay 
at  home  and  read  him.' 

"This  is  matter  of  opinion;  we  are  inclined  neither  to 
abuse  the  better  class  for  not  flocking  to  see  an  old  play, 


264  Memoir  of  Charles  Beade. 

nor  to  give  them  all  this  credit.  From  seven  till  ten  at 
night  is  the  theatrical  period  which  happens  not  to  be  the 
intellectual  hour  of  society;  on  uncommon  occasions  the 
higher  classes  are  diverted  from  Shakespeare  by  music  and 
novelties,  and  in  a  general  way  by  thin  soup,  strong  port, 
and  weak  chat;  by  a  natural  preference  for  the  society  of 
living  mortals  over  a  dead  immortal  on  boards  or  paper. 
That  Shakespeare  is  read  in  proportion  to  his  literary 
merits  is  a  day-dream. 

"  The  nation  is  full  of  thumbed  Tcnnysons,  but  its 
Shakespeares  are  beautifully  clean.  I  never  caught  but 
two  men  reading  this  poet,  and  never  a  single  woman  in 
our  whole  mortal  career.  We  allow  the  editions:  people 
do  buy  Shakespeare,  do  shelf  him,  or  ship  him  for  the 
colonies;  they  do  more,  they  mean  to  read  him,  profess  to 
have  read  him;  they  look  at  his  well-bound  back,  and  hon- 
estly think  they  must  somehow  have  read  him,  but  read 
him  they  do  not:  we  grant  that* his  words  of  wisdom 
have  become  part  of  our  common  knowledge.'  But  this 
does  not  advance  the  closet  one  inch  against  the  stage  un- 
less it  can  be  proved  that  these  words  of  wisdom  have  not 
been  caught  from  actors'  mouths;  it  would  be  easier  to 
prove  the  contrary. 

"What  are  the  quotations  in  common  use?  Those 
coming  from  the  plays  oftenest  acted;  ay,  and  from  the 
stage  copies  too. 

"At  this  moment,  three  literary  men  out  of  four  think 
*  Richard's  himself  again '  is  a  Shakespearian  line.  Why? 
Because  it  is  uttered  on  the  stage  for  Shakespeare  ;  and 
literature,  like  the  public,  takes  what  little  it  knows  from 
the  stage. 

"Among  the  phenomena  of  letters  is  this:  no  old  lady 
of  either  sex  can  write  a  novel  without  quoting  *  to  be  or 


A  Vindication  of  Shakespeare.  255 

not  to  be;'  which  words  he,  she,  and  it  understand  to  mean 
'to  take  place,  or  not  to  take  place,'  vide  every  bad  novel 
writer. 

"  Whence  this  universal  misrepresentation  of  a  writer  ? 
From  the  stage.  These  words  have  always  been  so  weak- 
ly pronounced  on  the  stage  that,  separated  from  their 
context,  they  lead  the  non-reader  of  Shakespeare  wrong. 

"The  words  of  course  mean  'to  exist  or  not  to  exist': 
the  latter  proposition  ought  to  be  marked  as  strongly  as 
the  first — that  is  to  say,  without  robbing  the  '  not '  of  its 
stress;  the  second  'to  be '  ought  to  be  marked  as  strongly 
as  the  first  'to  be';  so  spoken  they  could  not  be  misunder- 
stood when  separated  from  the  context. 

"But  they  are  not  so  spoken  because  actors  are  asses. 
To  him  who  reads  the  soliloquy  the  blunder  is  hardly 
possible  ;  why  then,  out  of  so  many  who  quote  it,  do  all 
misunderstand  it !  Because  Literature  takes  its  Shake- 
speare from  the  stage  ! 

"4  'Shakespeare  is  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time, 
whence  it  follows  by  a  legitimate  corollary  that  neither  is 
he  of  a  stage,  but  for  all  climes.'  When  time  and  place 
become  identical  this  may  be  Ratiocination;  it  is  to  say 
that  duration  implies  change  of  locality.  'The  Thames 
will  flow  on  forever;  ergo,  some  day  it  must  change  its 
bed.' 

"  We  are  ready  to  admit  that  the  dialogue  outside  Por- 
tia's house  (Lorenzo  and  Jessica)  is  defiled  at  present  upon 
the  stage;  two  creatures  bawling.  Moonlight,  music,  and 
silence  make  us  sigh  for  the  closet  and  the  speaking  book; 
and  other  poetic  passages  have  often  been  soiled  in  tho 
vulgar  hands  through  which  the  stage  in  its  present  state 
passes  them — indeed,  if  the  scale  was  the  balance,  these 
passages  would  do  wonders  for  this  antiscenic  theory. 


266  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

But  our  scale  is  not  a  balance,  and  for  every  sncli  passage 
there  are  ten  in  which  the  text  can  give  the  reader  but  a 
shadow  of  the  actor  poet.  On  this  point  surely  he  alone 
is  safe  evidence  who  reads  the  volumes  by  their  own  bare 
light.  In  o^ir  minds  what  we  have  seen,  and  what  we  read, 
have  long  ago  been  inextricably  commingled.  But  emi- 
nent scholars  who  have  just  studied  Shakespeare's  text, 
and  afterwards  seen  him  even  indifferently  acted,  have 
confessed  they  learned  more  of  the  man  by  one  such  rep- 
resentation than  by  many  perusals,  and  this  evidence  is  of 
an  impregnable  nature. 

"  The  reviewer,  in  estimating  the  force  of  Shakespeare 
on  the  public  when  heard  and  seen,  or  read  silently,  is  out 
of  his  depth;  he  fancies,  as  a  child  or  Dogberry  might, 
that  written  language  is  a  galvanic  telegraph  from  mind 
to  minds,  and  nothing  lost  in  transitu.  Alas  !  this  is  the 
brightest  but  falsest  of  all  his  dreams;  letters  are  a  clever 
invention,  but  not  so  clever  as  that.  Could  a  living  poet 
look  into  the  souls  of  his  readers  he  would  see  but  a 
sketch  of  the  thoughts  his  words  present  to  himself;  but 
if  that  poet  had  his  tongue  under  command  he  could,  by 
speaking  his  lines,  lay  something  of  his  colors  on  that 
sketch.  Spoken  words  are  signs  of  thought ;  written 
words  are  signs  of  such  signs.  Could  we  evoke  Shake- 
speare and  persuade  him  to  speak  his  greatest  lines,  would 
this  lad  pat  him  on  the  back  and  say,  *  you  are  spoiling 
the  author,  my  good  sir;  write  it  down,  you  never  meant 
it  to  be  spoken'?  No!  His  prejudice  would  be  cowed  by 
other  prejudices,  and  he  would  relish  these  living  words 
more  than  their  black  shadows  on  paper. 

"Yet  this  Shakespeare  found  in  his  day  actors  who, 
though  since  eclipsed,  could  speak  his  greatest  lines  up  to 
his  intention  and  more  to  his  mind  than  he  could  himself; 


A  Vindication  of  Shakespeare.  257 

this  is  proved  by  his  taking  the  second-rate  parts  in  his 
own  plays. — N,B.  The  only  manager  in  creation  that  ever 
did  this  or  ever  will.  Que  voidez-vous? — He  was  Shake- 
speare in  this  too;  Fraser's  decision  against  the  Macbeth 
and  Hamlet  of  actors  is  therefore  resolvable  into  Fraser 
versus  Shakespeare. 

"  Comparison  of  subjects  ends  the  moment  the  adjec- 
tive 'bad'  is  covertly  introduced  inside  a  substantive;  bad 
speaking  misleads  the  weak  mind  as  to  the  nature  of 
speech;  bad  acting  misleads  the  muddle-head  about  the 
meaning  of  the  word  acting. 

"  The  real  condition  of  words  is  this:  written  words  are 
the  fair,  undisfigured  corpses  of  spoken  words.  A  vulgar 
actor,  or  any  bad  speaker,  mutilates  these  corpses  more  or 
less;  but  an  artist  of  the  tongue,  like  Macready,  Rachel, 
or  Stirling,  restores  to  those  corpses  the  soul  and  sunlight 
they  had  when  in  the  author's  brain  and  breast. 

"Since  a  comparative  slur  has  been  thrown  on  Mr. 
Macready's  *  Macbeth,'  we  will  join  an  issue  on  that 
ground. 

"  Let  literary  critics  inspect  these  lines — 

'  Better  be  with  the  dead, 
Whom  we  to  gain  our  place  have  sent  to  peace, 
Than  on  the  torture  of  the  mind  to  lie 
In  restless  ecstasy.     Duncan  is  in  his  grave. 
After  Life's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well. 
Treason  has  done  its  worst :  nor  steel,  nor  poison, 
Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing, 
Can  touch  him  further' — 

and  afterwards  hear  Macready  speak  them.  If  they  have 
not,  as  many  of  our  literary  friends  have,  ears  too  deaf 
and  uncultivated  to  judge  the  triumphs  of  speech,  they 
will  acknowledge  they  could  never  have  gathered  for  them- 


258  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

selves  all  the  heavenly,  glowing  beauty  this  artist  restores 
to  the  stumbling  letter  of  the  text. 

"  No  private  reader  could  ever  see  these  words  as  Glover 
used  to  fire  them: 

"  '  Will  Sir  John  take  Fanny  without  a  fortune  ?  NO! 
After  you  have  settled  the  largest  part  of  your  property 
on  your  youngest  daughter,  can  there  be  an  equal  portion 
left  the  elder?  NO!  Doesn't  this  overturn  the  whole 
system  of  the  family?  YES!'  And  this  force  is  not  su- 
peradded, as  our  critic  might  think;  it  comes  in  most  cases 
by  oral  descent  from  the  author. 

"What  mere  reader  would  see  the  full  value  of  the 
*  Zaire,  vous  pleurez^  of  Voltaire?  The  author  did.  Act- 
ors have  succeeded  to  his  mind  as  well  as  syllables,  and  it 
is  only  by  the  stage  these  words  are  still  Voltaire  and  more 
than  his  shadow. 

"  The  reader  of  Otway  comes  to  these  words,  '  Remem- 
ber Twelve.'  He  sees  nothing  in  them  and  passes  on.  For 
years  these  words  were  never  spoken  on  the  stage  without 
a  round  of  applause. 

"'Use  souvienty  says  Rachel,  in  *  ie  Vieux  de  la  Mon- 
tague.'' A  murmur  of  admiration  bursts  from  the  cold  but 
intelligent  Theatre  Fran9ais;  what  are  those  words  to  any 
mere  reader  ? 

"Read  the  little  modern  play  called  'Time  Tries  All'; 
you  are  untouched  by  the  letters  of  which  it  is  composed, 
yet  when  Stirling  gives  the  author  to  the  public,  bearded 
men  are  seen  crying,  and  so  it  is  more  or  less  in  all  plays; 
less  so  in  Shakespeare's  or  Sheridan's  than  in  unreadable 
plays,  but  the  distinction  is  one  of  degree,  not  kind.  Shake- 
speare's gain  as  much  in  themselves,  as  the  diamond,  by 
being  shaped  and  polished.  The  dumb-play,  that  great 
pictorial  narrative, is  the  ground- work  of  all  human  plays; 
the  words  are  but  the  flowers. 


A  Vindication  of  Shakespeare.  259 

"  Whoever  can  measure  human  talent  has  observed  that 
a  novel  equal  to  or  a  little  inferior  to  a  given  play  is  thrice 
as  attractive  to  read;  and  why?  Because  the  novelist 
paints  the  dumb-play  of  his  characters,  and  with  his  best 
colors  too;  the  dramatist  is  obliged  to  leave  this  to  the 
stage  and  the  stage  does  it.  Such,  then,  is  the  double 
force  of  speaking  looks,  and  burning  -words,  that  it  is  im- 
possible any  play  can  be  in  the  closet  what  it  can  be  on 
the  stage  if  well  acted.  It  was  always  the  fate  of  the 
stage  to  be  most  talked  of  by  those  who  know  least  about 
it.  The  stage  is  the  unique  repository  of  oral  traditions  in 
lettered  nations. 

"The  melodies  Ophelia  sings,  and  her  pretty  ballad 
twang,  have  come  from  mouth  to  mouth  since  Shake- 
speare's time,  engraved  on  the  boards,  not  printed  in  the 
volumes.  The  business  of  the  stage,  the  positions  of  the 
personages,  are  in  many  cases  Shakespeare's;  and  it  is  not 
to  be  doubted  by  those  who  know  the  stage  that  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  of  Shakespeare's  own  tones  and  in- 
flections live  on  the  stage  and  by  the  stage;  to  perish  with 
the  stage,  the  towns,  the  palaces,  the  temples,  and  the 
globe. 

"  Kon  omnia  possumus  omnes. 

"  The  man  of  letters,  unless  keenly  on  his  guard,  is  apt, 
by  his  fixed  mode  of  acquiring  knowledge,  to  be  diverted 
from  that  fine  cultivation  of  the  ear  and  eye  which  quali- 
fies a  man  to  say  these  words  to  the  public  about  Kean  or 
Macready,  in  connection  with  Shakespeare.  This  is  ex- 
cusable; but  a  lettered  nation,  if  wise,  will  fight  against 
those  weaknesses  that  accompany  its  strength.  For  the 
senses,  like  the  stage,  are  what  man  chooses  to  make  them. 
They  are  avenues  by  which,  if  well  kept,  "Wisdom  and 
Beauty  have  access  to  the  soul.    They  can  also  be  left 


260  Memoir  of  CJiarles  Eeade. 

fallow,  blunted,  pen'erted,  or  degraded.  Wherefore  the 
stage  is  of  service  to  man  by  preserving  the  great  sense  of 
hearing  from  slowness,  rusticity,  and  degradation;  and  the 
great  and  Godlike  art  of  speech  from  being  lost!  Ay! 
from  being  lost! 

"  They  have  heard  to  little  purpose  who  have  not  dis- 
covered how  much  mouthing  and  very  little  correct  speak- 
ing there  is  in  churches,  courts  of  law,  parliament,  and  so- 
ciety. Great  speaking  there  is  none!  except  on  the  stage, 
where  there  is  so  devilish  little.  This  need  not  be  so, 
must  not  be  so,  will  not  be  so,  shall  not  be  so  !  But  so 
long  as  it  is  so,  let  us  work  from  the  centre  which  does 
exist,  and  create  a  circumference. 

"  Let  us  foster  the  unique  germ  of  this  great  art.  Let 
the  stage  be  chastised,  not  stabbed;  lashed,  not  barba- 
rously tomahawked;  let  the  average  manager  cease  to  carry 
his  want  of  morals  to  stupidity  and  his  want  of  intellect 
to  a  crime;  let  the  average  actor,  that  strange,  mad  lump 
of  conceit,  ignorance,  and  stale  tricks,  be  compelled  to 
learn  something  (at  present  he  is  the  one  spectator  who 
learns  nothing)  from  those  true  artists  of  the  tongue,  the 
face,  and  the  person  who  now  place  art  in  vain  by  the 
side  of  his  threadbare  artifice:  who  portray  the  emotions 
with  various  and  true  looks,  and  whose  golden  lips  shoot 
g^eat  words  to  the  ear,  burning  and  breathing  a  beauty,  a 
glory,  a  music,  and  a  life  that  those  words  can  never  carry 
to  the  soul  through  the  cold  and  imcertain  medium  of  the 
eye." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

VISITS   TO    ADDINGTOK   AND  KNEBWOETH. 

Among  Mrs.  Reade's  prelatical  friends  none  was  more 
stanch  than  John  Bird  Sumner,  successively  Bishop  of 
Chester  and  Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  To  the  last  he 
corresponded  with  her,  and  was  keenly  appreciative  of  her 
society.  Perhaps  it  may  be  superfluous  to  add  that  they 
were  both  of  the  same  way  of  thinking,  evangelical  to  the 
core. 

In  his  earlier  days  this  good  churchman  and  charming 
gentleman  had  been  a  constant  visitor  at  Ipsdcn ;  and 
among  Mrs.  Reade's  children,  if  we  except  her  daughter 
Julia,  none  attracted  him  more  than  Charles.  Had  the 
son  been  infected  with  his  mother's  ardent  religious  zeal, 
and  embraced  the  clerical  profession.  Dr.  Sumner  would 
have  spared  no  efforts  to  push  him  to  the  fore.  His  bias, 
as  we  know,  lay  in  a  different  direction,  but  the  archbishop 
had  a  long  memory  for  the  young  man  in  whom  formerly 
he  had  felt  so  warm  an  interest.  No  sooner  had  his  reputa- 
tion been  firmly  established  by  the  triumph  of  "  It  is  Never 
Too  Late  to  Mend,"  than  the  archbishop  hastened  to  offer 
him  the  hospitality  of  Addington. 

It  might  be  presupposed  that  Charles  Reade,  of  all  men, 
would  be  the  last  to  endure  social  penance  under  an  archi- 
episcopal  roof.  That,  however,  would  be  to  do  him  in- 
justice. The  son  of  the  most  courtly  of  gentlemen,  he 
had  inherited  the  very  type  of  manner  to  charm  Dr. 


262  Memoir  of  Charles  Ileade. 

Sumner.  He  knew  beforehand  that  he  would  be  not 
merely  a  welcome,  but  an  appreciated  guest;  nor  was  he, 
like  many  dwellers  in  the  land  of  Bohemia,  so  wretchedly 
narrow-minded  as  to  despise  scholarship  and  learning. 
Over  and  over  again  he  was  heard  throughout  his  career 
to  employ  the  same  formula,  "I  like  so-and-so.  At  all 
events  he  is  a  gentleman,"  the  inference  being  that  it  was 
his  hard  fate  to  rub  shoulders  with  very  many  bipeds  of 
the  male  variety  who  were  much  the  reverse.  Besides,  in 
the  case  of  Dr.  Sumner  he  had  to  encounter  a  dignitary  as 
keenly  capable  of  relishing  a  dramatic  situation  or  an 
epigrammatic  dialogue  as  his  worthy  uncle,  Mr.  Faber, 
who  on  one  occasion  strove,  though  the  Fates  happened 
to  be  against  it,  to  bring  him  in  contact  with  his  warm 
friend,  the  poet  Sonthey. 

He  accepted  the  kindly  archbishop's  invitation,  and  this 
is  how  he  describes  his  sensation  : 

"Addington  Park,  Crotdo:*,  Ttusday. 

"I  got  here  safe,  and  was  ushered  into  a  nice  large  bedroom  with  a 
bla^ng  fire  of  wood  and  coal. 

"Quite  a  small  party  to  dinner;  in  fact,  one  stranger  onlj,  a  parson,  .1 
chatty  personage  enough.  One  of  the  daughters,  I  find,  composes  songs 
and  sells  them  on  half-profits.    Some  talk  with  her  about  that, 

"Bob  Sumner,  the  son,  a  mighty  chatty  young  gentleman,  caught  me 
going  to  bed,  and  offered  me  a  cigar  on  the  sly  in  his  bedroom,  said  room 
being  about  the  size  of  our  premises ;  and  having  ascertained  by  its  per- 
manent odor  that  his  baccy  was  good,  I  proposed  that  he  should  play  a 
solo  on  that  instrument,  and  that  I  should  be  Nositor. 

"  Eyes  sparkled  in  the  usual  way  at  so  beneficent  a  proposition,  and  we 
sat  up  talking.  It  is  twelve  o'clock  (a.m.),  and  I  have  seen  nothing  of  my 
lord  yet,  so  I  doubt  he  is  taking  a  rest  after  his  solo. 

"  My  bed  was  delirious,  so  delicious  that  I  have  examined  its  construc- 
tion. The  foundation  is  one  of  those  spring}',  French  affairs;  then,  next 
to  the  body,  a  single  mattress — a  wool  mattress,  I  think,  but  a  foot  thick  ! 

"  I  woke  at  eight,  quite  refreshed.  It  is  a  beautiful  day,  and  I  hear 
some  talk  of  walking  out.    That  will  bore  me  considerably. 


Visits  to  Addington  and  Knehworth.  263 

"  The  dear  old  Arclibisbop  is  the  same  as  ever :  kind,  gentle,  and  unas- 
suming. I  observed  that  a  tendencj'  I  saw  in  him  last  lime,  to  go  to  sleep 
without  warning,  and  wake  again,  and  join  in  the  conversation  as  if  he  had 
never  been  away  from  it,  has  somewhat  developed  itself." 

This  may  be  taken  as  a  singularly  faithful  picture  of 
a  venerable  prelate,  who  was  advanced  to  the  chair  of 
A  Becket  and  Lanfranc,  not  so  much  because  of  promi- 
nent force  of  character,  as  on  account  of  his  sterling  worth. 
Dr.  Sumner  became  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  in  con- 
sequence of  being  personally  popular  with  everybody  who 
was  anybody.  He  was  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman ;  and 
adorned  his  exalted  office. 

Another  visit  about  this  period  was  infinitely  more  con- 
genial to  the  rising  author. 

It  has  been  previously  stated  that  among  the  numer- 
ous clergy  who  from  time  to  time  accepted  the  hospital- 
ity of  Ipsden,  Charles  Pearson  attracted  the  subject  of 
this  memoir  most.  He  had  become,  by  favor  of  Lord 
Lytton,  Rector  of  Knebworth,  and  was  desirous  of  bring- 
ing together  the  junior  and  veteran  novelist.  As  the 
event  proved,  the  associations  of  Knebworth  Rectory  and 
Park  were  so  agreeable  as  to  have  induced  Charles  Reado 
to  prolong  his  sojourn  in  Hertfordshire. 

His  first  letter  from  Knebworth  is  to  Mrs.  Seymour, 
who  was  sojourning  with  her  sister,  the  wife  of  the  Selkirk- 
shire minister,  Mr.  Gibson. 

"  Knebworth  Rectort,  Stetesage. 

"  Here  am  I,  but,  alas,  sans  nail-brush,  ians  tooth-brush,  sam  soda,  mns 
everything. 

"  At  dinner  yesterday,  Bulwer,  Sir  W.,  and  Lady  Boothby,  and  a  jolly 

plump  woman,  a  Mrs.  B ,  a  handsome  face  and  lively.     She  wore  a 

wreath  of  artificial  leaves,  and  diamonds  in  profusion,  set  on  light  sprigs ; 
they  shook  like  aspen  leaves  at  every  move,  and  I  expected  to  see  one  flirt 
out  and  glitter  on  the  ground.     It  is  not  usual  to  wear  £600  worth  of  dia- 


264  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

monds  at  a  small  diuner-party  Kith  the  parson  of  the  parish.  Bat  nerer 
mind.  Sir  W.  Bootbby  was  six  feet  fire,  and  quite  as  stout  in  proportion. 
Bulwer  is  wonderfully  like  Mephistopheles,  as  drawn  by  German  artists. 

"  I  got  a  splendid  idea  from  him  indirectly.     I  heard  him  telling  Ladj 

B that  he  had  photographt  of  maniaa  in  different  postures.     Lady 

B ,  who  is  one  of  those  sweet,  smiUng  dolts,  only  stared,  and  lold^  as 

soon  as  he  was  gone. 

"'A  knavish  speech  sleeps  in  a  foolish  ear.* 

"  Mrs.  Pearson's  remark :  '  Poor  man !  his  head  is  full  of  his  «/<•.' 

"  This  is  the  gossip  of  the  Rectory.  Oh  !  stop !  A  trait  of  the  hostess : 
Dislikes  *  Adam  Bede.'  Saw  at  once  it  was  by  a  woman,  and  a  coarse- 
minded  one.  Calls  it '  an  immoral  book,  very  unfit  for  young  men.  Young 
ladies  may  read  it — it  won't  do  them  any  harm,  because  they  won't  under- 
stand iL' 

"  Here's  paradox  for  you !" 

He  vrites  further: 

"  I  think  the  enclosed  will  give  yon  as  much  pleasure  just  now  as  any- 
thing I  could  tell  you.  And  please  put  it  carefully  away  inside  my  desk 
in  the  blue  room.  It  is  sincere ;  or  he  would  not  wont  me  to  go  in  for 
the  'Christmas  Tale.' 

"  We  may  also  hope  by  this  that  the  tale  will  not  flag,  for  mind,  D 

has  been  reading  a  long  way  in  advance  of  the  public. 

"  To-day  Mr.  Owen  Meredith,  son  of  Sir  K  Bulwer,  called  in  a  brown 
velvet  coat  and  waistcoat,  salmon-colored  shirt,  and  lilac  tie.  Very  agree- 
able and  funny. 

"  He  writes  poetry,  you  know,  and  very  well 

"  That  man  P who  intruded  on  me,  pretending  to  know  Bulwer, 

has  intruded  on  Bulwer  pretending  to  know  me,  and  has  nearly  ]x>isoned 
him.  I  wish  I  could  get  Bulwer  and  the  Minister  acquainted.  He  would 
really  do  him  some  good. 

"  On  Monday  I  return,  but  I  don't  as  yet  know  by  what  train.  No,  of 
AH  die  Tear  Round  duly  received.     Kind  regards  to  Gibson." 

To  Mrs.  Seymour  he  writes  again: 

"KsEBWORTH  Rkctobt,  Stttexage,  Hcbts. 
"They  insist  on  my  staying  till  Tuesday  afternoon  or  Wednesday  morn- 
ing.    I  yield. 


Visits  to  Addington  and  Ktiebworth.  265 

"  So  please  send  me  my  letters  till  Tuesday ;  I  hare  got  a  little  triumph 
for  you. 

"  The  Times  came  to-day  with  only  half  the  supplement.  I  asked  Pear- 
son the  reason,  and  he  said,  '  Oh,  that  was  all  that  could  go  by  post  under 
the  stamp.' 

"  So  it  seems  a  stamped  copy  is  really  weighed  by  the  news  agents,  and 
the  copies  are  prepared  for  posting  accordingly. 

"  Tlie  copies  go  on  the  railway  by  parcel,  and  are  therefore  always  com- 
plete when  you  buy  at  a  station. 

"  I  have  been  to  see  the  monument  of  the  Readcs  at  Hatfield  Church. 
I  am  told  nothing  is  left  of  old  Brocket  Hall.  I  have  found  out  how  it 
passed  away. 

"Sir  James  Reade,  who  died  in  1711,  had  no  son,  but  only  three  daugh- 
ters; these  would  be  co-heiresses,  and  sell,  like  idiots,  and  divide  the 
money,  instead  of  one  taking  the  estate  and  mortgaging  it  to  two  thirds 
for  the  others.  And  so  we  lost  Brocket  Hall,  as  we  got  it — by  the  pettU 
coats!  Mr.  Pearson  says  it  is  a  noble  park,  but  the  house  is  new.  I 
have  no  doubt  the  Melbournes  pulled  down  some  fine  old  Tudor  place, 
and  built  a  barrack  instead." 

This  letter  simply  bristles  with  errors.  The  last  Reade 
who  held  and  resided  at  Brocket  was  a  spinster.  Three 
of  her  sisters  were  married  :  one  to  Mr.  Secretary  Win- 
nington,  the  next  to  Sir  H.  Dashwood  of  Kirtlington,  the 
third  to  Mr.  Myddleton  of  Chirk  Castle.  Their  brother, 
the  last  baronet  of  the  Brocket  line,  died  in  Rome — as  the 
monument  says  "  while  on  his  travels,"  but  really  in  the 
suite  of  the  king  over  the  water.  On  his  death  Edward 
Reade  of  Ipsden,  nephew  of  the  first  baronet,  and  on 
failure  of  male  issue  heir  of  entail,  claimed  his  estate.  He 
employed  a  lawyer  in  Wallingford  to  prosecute  his  claim, 
and  the  man  was  incompetent. 

The  sisters  and  co-heiresses  of  the  deceased  baronet 

were  wealthy  and  in  possession ;  they  asserted  that  before 

their  brother  left  England  he  had  taken  effectual  measures 

to  bar  the  entail.     Edward  Reade  was  very  old  and  too 

12 


266  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

poor  to  engage  in  a  costly  lawsuit,  and  so  might  prevailed 
over  right.  On  the  death  of  Miss  Reade  in  1760,  this  fine 
demesne  was  sold,  and  twenty  years  afterwards  passed 
into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Lamb,  grandfather  of  the  late  Lord 
Melbourne,  and  of  his  sister  Lady  Palmerston,  and  is  now 
possessed  by  her  grandson,  Earl  Cowper. 
The  following  is  to  Mrs.  Reade: 

"  Knebwouth,  Wednesday. 

"Dkab  Mother, — I  dined  with  Sir  E.  Bulvrer  and  passed  a  pleasant,  in- 
structive evening. 

"  We  drew  from  biin  a  review  of  the  great  parliamentary  leaders  and 
speakers  of  bis  day,  and  some  traditions  of  the  last  generation  of  speakers. 

"  He  depicted  their  characters,  intellectual  and  moral,  very  finely  and 
very  fairly.  He  insists  that  Palmerston  and  hia  contemporaries  arc  vastly 
inferior  to  the  rising  men. 

"  It  may  interest  you  to  know  whom  he  calls  the  five  great  orators  of 
the  Lower  House :  Gladstone,  Bright,  "Whiteside,  Cairns,  D'Israeli,  super- 
eminent  in  irony,  personality  of  every  sort,  and  dramatic  talent,  but  prolix, 
and  inferior  in  dealing  with  general  subjects.  I  wish  you  could  have  beard 
him,  for  you  take  more  interest  in  politics  than  I  do. 

"Yours  affectionately,  Charles." 

This  is  to  Mrs.  Seymour,  Avho  had  returned  to  London: 

"  I  shall  come  home  Thursday,  as  I  said,  malgrt  an  invitation  to  dinner 
from  Sir  E.  L.  for  that  day.  He  asked  me  what  was  my  interest  in  defend- 
ing French  copyrights  ?  They  are  all  alike.  Incapable  of  public  feeling, 
unable  to  imagine  its  existence  within  a  human  breast. 

"He  is  comic  beyond  the  power  of  the  pen  to  describe.  Goes  off 
mentally  into  the  House  of  Commons,  and  harangues  by  the  yard  with 
an  arm  stretched  out  straight  as  a  line.  Puts  on  an  artificial  manner — 
Yaw!  Yaw  !  Yaw!  and  every  moment  exposes  the  artifice  by  exploding  in 
a  laugh  which  is  nature  itself — loud,  sudden,  clear,  fresh,  naive,  and  catch- 
ing as  a  ploughboy's. 

"These  periodical  returns  to  nature  in  her  rudest  form,  from  a  manner 
which  is  the  height  of  transparent  artifice,  are  funny  beyond  anything  the 
stage  has  hitherto  given  us." 


Visits  to  Addington  and  Knebworth.  267 

''Taken  in  combination  the  last  two  letters  are  admira- 
bly descriptive  of  tbe  romanticist  and  cynic,  the  genius  who 
loved,  dearly  veneer  and  prose.  The  concluding  missive 
to  Mrs.  Seymour  travels  away  from  Knebworth  to  her  own 
concerns: 

"  It  is  a  wet  day,  and  I  hope  to  do  wonders  with  this  little  farce  before 
dinner-time.    I  dine  with  Sir  E.  Bulwer  this  evening. 

"  The  Pearsons  are  most  anxious  I  should  stay  with  them  to-morrow. 
I  have  told  tliem  it  depends  whether  I  can  be  in  London  at  10.30  on  Fri- 
day, starting  hence  early  that  day. 

"  I  do  not  understand  whether  E.  has  made  a  hit  or  not.  I  hope  he  has. 
I  have  not  much  hopes  for  the  ballet — except  Thompson  they  are  all 
sloppy  !  sloppy ! — which  is  the  cause  of  failure  in  dancing,  singing,  preach- 
ing, acting,  everything — and  always  will  be ! 

"  I  cannot  see  the  fun  of  executing  feebly  the  sort  of  dance  the  public  has 
seen  done  with  fire  and  precision.  That  is  not  Burlesque,  any  more  than 
Miss  Glyn's  Stewart  is  burlesque.  If  merely  doing  things  badly  was  fun, 
how  full  of  fun  the  stage  and  the  world  would  be. 

"  One  comfort  is,  the  public  is  an  ass.  Let  us  hope  that  by  deserving  to 
fail  we  may  succeed." 

Sir  Edward  Ly tton-Bulwer,  as  lie  was  then,  Lord  Lytton 
afterwards,  proved  in  one  way  a  good  friend  to  our  author. 
He  introduced  to  each  other  the  two  Charleses  of  fiction, 
Charles  Dickens  and  Charles  Reade.  Remotely  he  was 
of  the  same  blood  as  the  latter,  and  in  art  the  f rater  fra- 
terrimus  of  each.  His  letter  of  introduction  has  been  pre- 
served, and  runs  thus: 

"My  dkar  Dickens,  —  Ilcrcwith  let  me  present  to  you  Mr.  Charles 
Reade,  whose  works  and  pen  are  too  well  known  to  you  to  need  length- 
ened introduction.  lie  would  like  to  talk  to  you  on  a  favorite  subject  of 
his  for  improving  the  interest  of  author."?. 

"  Yours  ever,  E.  B.  Lttton. 

"  Kkbbworth,  November  25/A,  1859." 

Result.  Charles  Dickens  clasped  the  other  Charles  by 
the  hand,  and  they  became  forever  after  fast  friends. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

COMBATIVE. 

It  was  on  the  eve  of  the  issue  of  "  White  Lies,"  when  the 
public  had  begun  to  think  that  the  author  of  "  It  is  Never 
Too  Late  to  Mend  "  was  going  to  prove  a  one-book  man, 
that  he  permitted  his  enthusiasm  for  justice,  always  a  rul- 
ing passion  of  his,  to  hurry  him  into  two  acts  of  singular- 
ly chivalrous  unwisdom. 

We  have  seen  how  he  strove  to  enlist  the  sympathies  of 
Lord  Lytton  and  Charles  Dickens  on  behalf  of  the  French 
playwrights.  He  had  availed  himself,  already,  of  French 
brains — had  stolen,  as  he  would  have  phrased  it.  But  a 
step  had  already  been  taken  by  our  Legislature  in  the  di- 
rection of  International  Copyright;  and  it  was  still  open 
to  question  whether  the  dramatic  rights  of  the  foreigner 
could  be,  as  they  ought  in  equity  to  be,  safeguarded. 

To  test  this,  Charles  Reade  went  to  Paris,  interviewed 
M.  Maquet,  bought  a  play  of  his — "  The  English  Right  of 
Reproduction  " — for  £40,  and  came  home  to  assert  it.  To 
commence  operations  he  entered  his  claim  at  Stationer's 
Hall,  advertised  his  sole  proprietorship,  and  had  not  long 
to  wait  before  it  was  challenged. 

First,  Mr.  Sterling  Coyne  asked  to  be  allowed  to  play 
his  own  adaptation  of  Maquet's  piece  at  the  Surrey  Theatre. 
This  was  granted  with  reluctance.  But  no  sooner  had 
Coyne's  play  been  advertised  than,  presto,  two  unheard-of 
authors  announced  another  adaptation  at  the  Strand.     Mr. 


Combative.  26^ 

George  Annesley  was  accordingly  instructed  by  Charles 
Reade  to  warn  them  against  this  infringement  of  his  rights; 
and  later,  in  company  with  an  able  solicitor,  he  called  and 
politely  stated  bis  resolve  to  attack  them.  They  saved 
him,  however,  the  trouble  of  becoming  plaintiff  by  com- 
mencing an  action  against  him  for  slander  of  their  title, 
which  he  had  stigmatized  as  piracy. 

He  fought  it  out  to  the  end,  and  won  his  case  with  costs; 
whereupon  one  of  the  dramatic  anonymuncules  went  bank- 
rupt with  all  possible  celerity;  and  the  other,  after  going 
to  prison  and  threatening  the  Insolvent  Court,  eventually 
paid  a  fraction  of  his  debt  by  instalments.  In  the  long 
run,  Charles  Reade  emerged  from  his  litigation  a  loser  of 
£210,  not  to  mention  time  and  temper.  The  latter  found 
an  easement  in  the  publication  of  a  record  of  these  pro- 
ceedings. The  book,  styled  "  The  Eighth  Commandment," 
is  as  terse,  epigrammatic,  and,  we  must  add,  hysterical  as 
its  subject  is  dreary.  He  published  it  at  his  own  risk,  per 
Messrs.  TrUbner,  and  probably  added  to  the  losses  of  the 
lawsuit  not  inconsiderably.  A  little  more  of  this  sort  of 
unwisdom  would  have  wrecked  an  established  reputation. 
Mudie  declined  "  The  Eighth  Commandment,"  and  the  re- 
views refused  to  regard  it  as  serious.  Its  author  very 
quickly  perceived  that  he  had  perpetrated  an  error,  and  in 
private  acknowledged  it.  He  had  been  in  effect  piling 
Pel  ion  super  Ossam. 

The  Ossa  to  which  we  refer  was  a  bit  of  Quixotism  of  a 
different  sort.  His  study  of  criminal  life,  if  not  the  nat- 
ural bent  of  his  mind,  had  led  him  to  believe,  there  being 
indisputably  an  immense  mass  of  injury  and  cruelty,  in- 
justice and  oppression,  in  this  wicked  world,  that  it  was 
the  mission  of  all  good  and  true  men  to  battle  with  it. 
Dickens  held  very  much  the  same  idea;  but  he  was  prac- 


270  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

tical  and  unenthusiastic  compared  with  Charles  Reade. 
The  latter,  in  the  spirit  of  one  of  his  knight  -  errant  ances- 
tors, burned  with  a  desire  to  redress  wrong  and  punish 
robbery.  Hence,  when  a  tale  of  suffering  was  poured  into 
his  ears,  they  were  only  too  ready  to  listen. 

The  first  subject  for  whom  he  elected  to  break  a  lance 
was  a  Mr.  Fletcher.  Certain  near  relations  averred  that 
this  gentleman  was  insane.  Most  assuredly,  if  manner  be 
at  all  a  test  of  sanity  or  its  opposite,  most  casual  observ- 
ers would  have  cordially  agreed  with  the  relatives.  The 
writer  has  a  vivid  remembrance  of  his  prolonged  agony 
during  a  breakfast  to  which  he  was  invited  in  order  to 
meet  the  said  Mr.  Fletcher.  It  may  be  that  the  gentle- 
man's brain  was  abnormally  excited  by  the  conversation 
happening  to  turn  on  his  own  grievance.  But  certes,  when 
a  young  man  elects  to  brandish  his  knife  in  order  to  point 
a  moral  and  adorn  a  tale,  one  can  but  argue  cerebral  irri- 
tation on  his  part — and  that,  too,  of  a  rather  alarming 
type,  and  wish  he,  or  you,  were  somewhere  else.  What, 
however,  appeared  to  commonplace  minds  to  resemble,  let 
us  say,  a  splendid  presentment  of  lunacy,  to  Charles  Reade 
seemed  only  a  charming  and  natural  vivacity.  It  would 
be  libellous  to  affirm  that  the  gentleman  was  mad,  nor  do 
we  hazard  so  much  as  a  suggestion  of  derangement.  The 
knife,  however,  which  he  employed  much  as  the  late  M. 
Jullien  his  bdton,  might  have  been  termed  a  colorable  pre- 
text. His  champion,  nevertheless,  believed  in  him  heartily, 
and  espoused  his  cause  with  amazing  warmth.  These  are 
his  reflections  concerning  the  Fletcher  episode  many  years 
after  it  had  terminated,  and  he  was  a  wiser  man  : 

"  In  the  intervals  of  writing  novels  and  dramas,"  he  re- 
marks," I  have  had  many  lawsuits,  for  myself  and  others. 
My  own  were  principally  in  defence  of  my  literary  prop- 


Cowhatvoe.  271 

erty.  Of  the  others,  one  is  worth  mentioning.  There  is 
a  commercial  house  of  some  importance,  Fletcher  &  Com- 
pany. The  firm  was  troubled  with  a  relative,  a  nephew,  a 
young  fellow  who  drank,  had  fits,  wasted  money,  and 
above  all,  claimed  £35,000  of  the  House  as  his  father's 
representative.  They  put  him  into  a  madhouse.  He  es- 
caped, and  threw  himself  on  my  protection.  I  found  him 
a  solicitor,  who  took  proceedings;  and  I  kept  the  plaintiff 
twelve  months  at  my  own  expense,  and  brought  him  up  to 
the  scratch,  sober.  He  was  examined  eight  hours,  and  his 
sanity  so  cleared  that  defendants  succumbed  and  com- 
promised the  case  for  an  annuity." 

He  judiciously  omits  to  state  what  this  little  business 
cost  him,  over  and  above  time,  trouble,  and  ceaseless  worry. 
Enough  that  he  cried  after  it  was  over,  "No  more  Law- 
suits !  No  more  Eighth  Commandments !  No  more 
Fletchers  !" 

Unfortunately  he  did  not  entirely  adhere  to  this  ad- 
mirable resolution.     But  of  that  anon. 

It  must  have  been  clear  to  him  at  this  point  in  his  career 
that  he  had  frittered  away  at  least  three  valuable  years. 
But  he  was  still  young,  fond  of  cricket  and  American 
bowls,  with  plenty  of  elasticity  left,  nor  had  he  in  the 
least  lost  faith  in  himself.  The  one  thing  needful  ap- 
peared to  be  another  big  book — a  success,  which  should 
rival,  if  not  cap,  his  glorious  "  8cra  nunquamP  The  crit- 
ics had  told  him  that  there  was  nothing  he  could  not  do, 
if  only  he  would  rise  to  his  highest  level,  and  he  had  but 
to  verify  their  flattering  assurance.  Hitherto  he  had 
placed  unbounded  faith  in  what  we  may  term  Gallicism. 
He  was  fond  of  asseverating  that  the  French  are  the  only 
real  masters  of  prose  in  Europe,  and  had  written  very 
much  with  a  French  pen,  though  in  his  native  tongue. 


272  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

Qualified  success,  however,  too  closely  akin  to  failure,  had 
shaken  his  belief  in  Anglo-French  dialogue,  scenery,  and 
situations.  One  must  do  in  Rome  as  Rome  does,  and  to 
please  the  British  public  a  writer  has  to  consider  British 
sentiment.  He  seems,  therefore,  to  have  gathered  together 
all  the  forces  at  his  command  for  another  supreme  effort. 
In  "It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend"  he  had  paralleled 
"Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  His  next  achievement  would  be 
in  the  domain  of  the  greatest  master  of  romance,  Sir 
"Walter  Scott.  The  threads  of  the  book,  as  yet  uncon- 
ceived,  came  to  him  as  by  inspiration,  one  after  another. 
He  read  for  it,  and  up  to  it,  following  his  old  lines,  and 
verifying  each  minute  detail.  He  labored  so  hard  as  at 
last  to  weary  of  the  labor — it  overtaxed  even  his  Titanic 
industry.  But  he  achieved  in  the  end  a  grand  and  lasting 
result.  He  never  regarded  the  book  as  his  masterpiece, 
proving  thereby  that  the  maker  is  seldom  the  best  judge 
of  his  own  work.  But  the  verdict  has  long  since  been 
unanimous  that  this  same  painfully  evolved  monument  of 
fiction  is  not  only  his  best,  but,  further,  one  of  the  rarest 
gems  of  English  literature.  A  Fellow  of  Magdalen,  with 
a  very  acute  intellect  of  his  own,  on  its  first  appearance 
aphorized  concerning  it — "There  has  been  nothing  like 
this  since  Sir  Walter  Scott." 

And  now,  so  far  as  we  are  able  to  tell  the  story — we 
might  almost  say  the  adventures — of  this  remarkable  book: 

He  bargained  with  the  proprietors  of  Once  a  Week  to 
contribute  a  serial  to  their  columns.  It  has  been  stated, 
on  what  seems  to  us  authority,  that  after  the  appearance 
of  the  first  few  numbers  of  this  same  serial,  styled  "A 
Good  Fight,"  Once  a  Week  rose  in  circulation  twenty 
thousand  copies — or  more,  the  figures  having  been  dupli- 
cated by  some  of  the  author's  more  ardent  admirers.    Of 


Combative.  273 

the  accuracy  of  this  arithmetic  we  cannot  speak  with  cer- 
tainty. Enough  that  the  story  fascinated  its  readers,  but 
not,  apparently,  the  editor  of  the  magazine. 

Its  genesis  ah  ovo  is  rather  obscure.  Before  it  dazzled 
the  public,  no  living  being  could  have  accredited  Charles 
Reade  with  a  plunge  into  the  moyen  dge. 

"  What,"  cried  he  to  the  writer  of  these  lines,  who 
during  his  undergraduate  days  had  been  severely  bitten 
by  the  prevailing  Puginisra  of  young  Oxford,  "are  you 
mediaeval  ?"  Yet,  if  the  tone  of  this  query  were  contemp- 
tuous, it  is  none  the  less  a  fact  that  he  evinced  a  curious 
interest  in  his  vis-a-vis  on  Number  2  Staircase,  New  Build- 
ings, the  Reverend  Dr.  Bloxam,  who  had  been  in  his  youth 
Cardinal  Newman's  curate  at  Littlemore,  and  was  im- 
mersed in  antiquities  of  all  sorts,  more  particularly  eccle- 
siastical. This  student's  rooms  were  overcrowded  with 
mediaeval  curios,  and  might,  at  the  time,  have  been  termed 
one  of  the  sights  of  Oxford.  Moreover,  Dr.  Bloxam  had 
just  published  the  first  volumes  of  a  work  involving  im- 
mense research,  being,  in  fact,  a  catalogue  raisonnee  of 
every  member  of  Magdalen  College  from  a.  d.  1460  to 
A.D.  1860.  It  is,  therefore,  more  than  probable  that  the 
naked  idea  of  "  A  Good  Fight "  occurred  to  its  author's 
mind  from  observation,  not  unmixed  with  amazement,  of 
the  labors  of  his  College  friend  and  contemporary.  Dr. 
Bloxam  had  thoroughly  and  successfully  antedated  his 
existence  by  several  centuries.  Charles  Reade,  on  differ- 
ent lines,  might  do  likewise. 

Events  favored  this  heau  rive.  He  lighted,  in  the  course 
of  his  reading  and  researches — his  eye  and  mind  were 
ceaselessly  burrowing  Avhcrever  a  book  or  paper  presented 
itself — on  more  than  one  volume,  which  seemed  to  suggest 
an  appropriate  clothing  for  the  aforesaid  bare  idea ;  above 
12* 


274  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

all  on  a  legend  Latine  JRedcUtum,  -which  told  a  drama  with 
more  than  parabolic  brevity,  and  less  than  human  callous- 
ness.  "  Here,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  is  a  fine  field  for  an 
artist.  I  have  but  to  take  these  dry  bones  with  their 
beautiful  and  touching  outline,  breathe  into  them  the 
spirit  of  humanity,  and  they  will  last  as  long  as  the  hu- 
man, or,  at  all  events,  the  English,  race."  To  do  so,  he 
had,  perforce,  to  surmount  a  congenital  distaste  for  all 
things  mediaeval,  and  strive  to  enter  into  the  temper  and 
tone  of  a  remote  past.  That  which  would  have  been 
natural  to  a  Bloxam,  to  him  was  so  intensely  artificial  as 
to  necessitate  not  merely  an  effort,  but  an  abnegation  of 
his  most  cherished  intuitions.  He  did  it,  as  he  did  every- 
thing when  his  will  was  concentrated  upon  it,  with  force 
and  accuracy.  He  read,  not  only  volumes,  but  book- 
shelves and  libraries,  with  patience,  if  not  with  avidity. 
He  achieved  an  act  of  devolution,  and  for  the  nonce  be- 
came mediaeval ;  so  much  so  that,  just  as  Australians  still 
refuse  to  believe  that  the  man  who  wrote  the  third  vol- 
ume of  "  It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend  "  had  never  been 
in  Australia — this  on  the  evidence  of  Mr.  Dampier,  the 
most  eminent  of  Antipodean  actors,  and  himself  a  master 
of  melodrama — in  like  manner  the  reader  of  the  "Magnum 
Opus,''*  to  which  we  refer,  might  almost  presuppose  that 
its  author  was  a  Dutchman  of  the  period  of  Erasmus. 

The  earliest  reference  to  "  A  Good  Fight "  that  we  can 
light  upon  is  in  a  letter  addressed  to  Mrs.  Seymour  in 
Germany. 

"  Triibner,"  he  writes, "  is  in  raptures  with  *  The  Eighth 
Commandment,'  and  says  I  can  be  one  of  the  greatest 
critics  of  the  age,  if  I  choose. 

"  I  don't  choose. 

"  Catch  me  at  that  work  again  ! 


Combative.  2 '75 

"  I  have  got  a  book  over  from  Paris — two  large  vol- 
umes on  the  Hotels  and  Taverns  of  the  Middle  Ages.  I 
find  much  good  matter  in  it  for  'A  Good  Fight.'" 

Again,  in  a  letter  a  few  days  later : 

"  My  efforts  are  now  directed  to  this — to  make  '  A  Good 
Fight,'  if  possible,  so  remarkable  a  story  that  Mudie  shall 
be  forced  to  take  copies  at  a  fair  price. 

"  I  have  written  a  page  of  '  Good  Fight,'  but  have  been 
compelled  to  stop  there,  and  to  review,  and  try  to  digest, 
my  materials.  I  feel  that  I  must  not  waste  all  this  labor 
by  producing  a  mediocre  effect. 

"It  shall  be  the  last  time  I  ever  go  out  of  ray  own 
age. 

"  The  same  labor  bestowed  on  a  subject  of  the  day,  what 
would  it  not  have  done  for  me  ? 

"  There  is  something  about  this  weather  very  dispirit- 
ing. Perhaps  that  is  what  was  depressing  you  when  you 
wrote.  I  have  had  the  same  feeling  once  or  twice  sinco 
you  were  gone.  I  do  not  give  v/ay  to  it.  On  taking  a 
calm  review  of  circumstances  I  see  no  reason  to  de- 
spond. 

"  A  man  who  steps  out  of  the  beaten  track  in  every  way 
as  I  do,  must  expect  greater  difficulties  than  other  people. 
The  question  whether  I  can  overcome  them  or  not  is  not 
settled.  "When  I  produce  another  '  Never  Too  Late,'  and 
the  Cabal  succeed  in  burking  it,  then  I  will  give  in. 

"Not  before!" 

The  next  letter  on  this  topic  is  so  characteristic  that  wo 
give  it  in  its  entirety,  premising  that  Mrs.  Seymour  seems 
to  have  returned  from  Germany,  and,  after  a  flying  visit 
to  Bolton  Row,  to  have  departed  to  her  sister  and  brother- 
in-law  in  Selkirkshire.  We  will  add  that  Charles  Reado 
entertained  the  greatest  reverence  for  this  gentleman,  Mr. 


276  Memoir  of  Charles  Beade. 

Gibson,  Minister  of  Kirkliope.  He  calls  him  elsewhere 
"  My  very  dear  friend." 

"Thanks  for  your  prompt  letter,"  he  says.  "So  you 
arrived  at  the  Holy  fair — vide  that  rogue  Burns,  his  work. 
Small  troubles,  observing  you  were  in  Scotland,  have  de- 
scended on  us  like  hail.  Margaret  has  spilt  grease  in  spots 
all  lip  the  stairs.    It  rains  taxes,  and  Winwoods,  and  things. 

"  Per  contra  Millais  has  offered  me  £500  for  '  Sir  Isum- 
bras.'    So  that  you  see  I  am  all  right  there  ! 

"  Brisebarre  writes  from  Paris  and  promises  to  back  me 
in  the  Parisian  press — Maquet  ditto.  Of  the  English  press 
I  have  no  hope,  as  you  are  well  aware. 

"I  need  try  and  keep  my  temper,  and  remember  that 
my  lines  will  outlive  theirs  by  many  years. 

"The  book  I  have  had  over  from  France  is  long;  but 
full  of  curious  knowledge.  I  don't  despair  of  making  '  A 
Good  Fight '  a  remarkable  story  yet,  but,  of  course,  I  can- 
not feel  sure. 

"I  have  twice  attempted  to  show  Conway  Kensington 
Gardens,  and  twice  been  caught  in  a  thunderstorm.  So  I 
have  retired  from  the  unequal  contest,  and  he  now  lion- 
izes himself. 

"  I  hope  you  will  have  a  fine  day  during  your  stay. 

"  Give  ray  love  to  your  host  and  hostess." 

Again,  and  in  a  different  vein : 

"Yesterday  I  dined  off  pork  chops,  and  they  were  so  bad 
I  ate  but  one.  I  then  made  a  homble  discovery — that  for 
years  I  have  been  overeating.  Dining  off  that  one  chop 
and  no  pudding  I  was  as  light  as  a  feather,  and  rather 
brighter  for  dinner  than  otherwise.  Oh,  if  I  had  the  reso- 
lution to  act  for  ten  years  on  that  information  ! 

"  Gerard  is  now  just  getting  to  France,  after  many  ad- 
ventures in  Germany.     The  new  character  I  have  added. 


Coiribative.  277 

Denys,  a  Burgundian  soldier,  a  cross-bowman,  will,  I  hope 
and  trust,  please  you.  It  will  be  a  daring  story  altogether. 
I  shall  give  Gerard  a  scene  with  the  Pope — Pius  II. 

"To-day — 18G0 — in  London,  an  Irish  laborer  hits  his 
son  with  a  leathern  strap  and  iron  buckle,  and  almost  flays 
him  alive.  He  is  remanded,  but  not  imprisoned,  but  held 
to  bail. 

"In  1560,  as  I  learn  by  an  undertaker's  diary  of  that 
time,  a  master  licked  his  apprentice  boy  with  a  leathern 
strap  and  iron  bucJcle,  and  miserably  excoriated  him. 

"  They  did  not  admit  him  to  bail,  but  set  him  on  a  pil- 
lory and  flogged  him  till  the  blood  ran  down;  and  set  his 
victim  bare-backed  beside  him  to  show  for  what  crime, 
and  how  exact  the  retribution." 

Could  he  have  had  in  memory,  as  he  penned  this  nar- 
rative of  poetical  justice  with  such  gusto,  the  thick  and 
the  thin  canes  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Slatter  of  Rose 
Hill  ? 

We  now  come  to  an  episode  in  the  record  of  "A  Good 
Fight,"  which  was  destined  to  give  it  the  coup  de  grdce. 
It  would  be  invidious  on  our  part  to  protrude  any  com- 
ment on  a  quarrel  between  author  and  editor,  neither  shall 
we  do  so — albeit  we  have  our  own  opinion.  Charles  Reade 
shall  be  allowed  to  state  his  case  in  his  own  way,  and  the 
world  can  form  its  own  judgment  on  the  merits  of  a  dis- 
pute which  would  have  been  the  more  regrettable  had  it 
not  in  the  long  run  conduced  to  the  recasting  of  the  book 
to  its  infinite  advantage.  He  writes  from  Magdalen  Col- 
lege thus: 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  the  editor  of  Once  a  Week  has 
been  very  annoying,  tampering  with  my  text  and  so  on. 
I  have  been  obliged  to  tell  him  that  he  must  distinguish 
between  anonymous  contributions  and  those  in  which  an 


278  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

approved  author  takes  the  responsibility  by  signing  his 
own  name. 

"  Answer.  That  with  every  wish  to  oblige  me,  he  can- 
not resign  his  editorial  function. 

"  Answer.  That  if  he  alters  my  text  I  will  publicly  dis- 
own his  alteration  in  an  advertisement,  and  send  no  more 
MS.  to  the  office. 

"  On  this  he  seems  to  be  down  on  his  luck  a  little.  For 
he  confines  himself  to  ending  my  last  number  on  the  fee- 
blest sentence  he  can  find  out,  and  begging  me  to  end  the 
tale  as  soon  as  possible,  which  of  course  I  shall  not  do  to 
oblige  him.  But  all  this  is  unfortunate,  and  makes  me 
fear  that  I  am  a  very  quarrelsome  man,  or  that  other  au- 
thors must  be  very  spiritless  ones. 

"  It  is  rather  ungrateful  on  the  other  side,  for  the  story 
has  done  great  things  for  them,  as  far  as  I  can  learn. 

"I  don't  think,  however,  this  is  their  opinion.  They 
fancy  that  their  paltry  illustrations,  which  are  far  below 
the  level  of  the  penny  press,  do  the  business.  Well,  I 
plough  on,  convinced  that  when  the  "  Good  Fight "  gets 
into  my  hands,  and  you  and  I  can  see  it  all  in  one  view, 
we  can  make  an  immortal  story  of  it  by  the  requisite  im- 
provements. 

"  It  has  suffered  in  serial  form  by  the  marvellous  inca- 
pacity with  which  the  numbers  have  been  concluded." 

Lastly, 

"They  are  very  anxious  it  should  end.  I  have  accom- 
modated them. 

"  I  have — *  Away  with  melancholy!' — reversed  the  catas- 
trophe; made  Gerard  and  his  sweetheart  happy;  sent  Kate 
to  heaven,  and  they  and  their  weekly  may  go  to  the  other 
place.  Any  way  the  story  is  finished,  and  they  are  rid  of 
me,  and  I  of  them— ;/brct7cr/ 


Combative.  279 

"  You  are  quite  right.  I  shall  have  many  a  dig  for  it. 
I  don't  know  whether  I  am  to  blame  or  not. 

"  Is  it  not  monstrous  that  a  person  whose  name  does  not 
appear  should  assume  to  alter  the  text  of  an  approved  au- 
thor, who  signs  his  name  to  the  text  in  question  ? 

"  Another  little  worry !  Sampson  Low,  Harpers'  agent, 
has  only  just  let  me  know  that  Ticknor  &  Fields  advertise 
to  publish  *  Good  Fight.' 

"It  is  very  wrong,  when  they  know  I  have  treated  with 
Harpers.  A  month  ago  I  proposed  to  Low  to  print  in 
advance  at  Clowes,  and  send  out  last  sheet  well  ahead. 

"  The  noodle  pooh-poohed  it.  They  must  all  be  wiser 
than  me.     Now,  too  late,  he  sees  his  mistake." 

Noodle  here  may  be  taken  as  a  term  of  endearment,  for 
it  is  not  one  of  Charles  Reade's  superlatives,  and  he  always 
professed  a  very  warm  regard  for  the  venerable  publisher, 
now,  alas,  no  more. 

Thus  it  happened  that." A  Good  Fight"  reverted  to  its 
author.  He  took  it  as  so  much  material  for  a  new,  and 
a  far  grander,  work. 

It  had  not  touched  his  ideal,  nor  indeed  had  he  as  yet 
so  far  mastered  his  enormous  subject  as  to  be  fully  pre- 
pared to  handle  it — as  he  would  have  phrased  it — immor- 
tally. The  rebuff  must  have  been  somewhat  of  a  trial  to 
his  sensibilities;  and  we  have  seen  that  he  resented  the 
dry-nursing  which  some  authors  take  with  meekness  and 
mildness.  All  was  well,  however,  that  ended  well.  Once 
a  Week  exposed  itself  to  ridicule,  for  the  collapse  of  the 
plot  was  transparent;  and  the  author  had  virtually  led  up 
to  a  climax  only  to  present  a  bathos,  and  after  that  to  run 
down  with  comic  celerity.  The  Jiasco  did  not  hurt  him  in 
the  slightest  degree,  indeed  it  turned  out  for  his  benefit. 
He  reverted  to  his  medieval  explorations  at  Oxford  with 


280  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

fresh  zest,  by  no  means  hurrying  himself,  and  stem  in  his 
determination — now  that  he  was  put  on  his  mettle — to 
prove  that  his  editorial  censor  was  wrong,  and  he  right. 
In  a  word,  he  resolved  that  he  would  evolve  a  really  solid 
work  of  the  highest  literary  art. 

He  did  so. 

We  will  reserve  the  account  of  this  supreme  labor  of 
his  for  another  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"the  cloister  and  the  hearth." 

To  appreciate  Charles  Reade's  literary  masterpiece,  his 
most  enduring  success,  the  highest  flight  of  his  vigorous 
imagination,  you  must  put  yourself  in  the  author's  place. 

It  is  a  fact  that  more  than  one  writer  of  fiction,  being 
of  the  gentle  sex,  has  made  her  mark  by  describing  dra- 
matically the  love-crisis  of  her  own  life.  There  is  no  hero- 
ine to  a  woman's  mind  like  herself.  On  that  idol,  espe- 
cially when  its  heart  happens  to  be  shattered,  she  can  lay 
her  most  startling  colors.  The  picture  she  paints  may  be 
a  very  sublimated  presentment  of  the  original;  yet  in  spite 
of  this  harmless  unveracity  will  be  lifelike,  for  it  repre- 
sents, in  outline  at  all  events,  pure  nature.  Besides,  every 
lady,  like  the  rest  of  us  perhaps,  is  so  keenly  in  sympathy 
with  herself.  We  do  not  propose  to  hurl  at  our  author 
a  wild  accusation  of  being  feminine.  His  virilis  cultus 
was  as  pronounced  as  that  of  Achilles.  Yet,  perhaps 
unconsciously,  perhaps  intentionally,  the  crux  which  his 
"genius  invented  in  order  to  mar  Gerard's  life  and  love  was 
'^ismc/Tj'lEnd  he  depicted  it  as  one  into  whoso  soul  the  iron 
Had  entered. 

" _  Celibacy,  like  a  demon — Charles  Reade  with  amusing 
inconsequence  styles  it  a  heresy,  thereby  unifying  such  in- 
congruities as  doctrine  and  practice — had  gripped  Gerard. 
Celibacy  also  with  its  cruel  claw  held  Charles  Reade 
prisoner.      HadGft^fird  mi^rrjed.  he  would,  on  the  lines 


282  Memoir  of  Charles  Meade. 

of  his  belief,  liave  lost  bis  soul.  Had  Cbarles  Reade 
married,  he  would  lia\e  starved.  Two  thirds  of  his  life  had 
passed  before  be  could  dream  of  dispensing  with  what 
he  often  termed  his  prop,  viz.,  his  Fellowship  at  Magdalen. 
His  youth  was  gone.  His  middle  age  was  all  but  gone. 
^e  jaft'tfegjTetim  of  the  Cloister,  if  ever  man  was. 

And  hermit  or  monk  never  realized  this  better  than 
Charles  Reade.  There  must  have  been  beneath  the  sur- 
face an  intensity  of  personal  feeling  to  paint  so  graphically 
the  loss  of  love  and  home,  and  the  dull,  dogged  determina- 
tion to  make  the  best  of  it.  The  reader's  sensibilities  aije 
probed  to  the  core  by  the  sorrowful  talc,  so  dramatic,  yet 
dignified,  and  raised  far  above  the  stage  level,  by  a  singu- 
larly undramatic  ending. 

To  avoid  any  possible  misconception,  let  it  not  be  sup- 
posed for  an  instant  that  the  author  identified  Margaret 
Brandt  with  Mrs.  Seymour.  The  notion  would  be  too 
preposterous;  the  more  so,  because  the  author  and  the 
actress  neither  contemplated  nor  desired  marriage — they 
were  fast  friends;  that  was  all.  Margaret  was  a  creation, 
and  a  very  lovely  one;  and  if,  as  is  more  than  probable, 
she  had  a  prototype  in  the  mind  of  her  creator,  it  was 
certainly  not  a  lady  of  mature  age,  gifted  with  a  consider- 
able aptitude  for  business.  The  unities  forbid  the  bare 
suggestion. 

We  have  already  learned  from  Charles  Reade's  hurried 
letter  that  much  of  the  pictorial  accessories  of  the  story 
was  obtained  by  a  careful  digest  of  the  large  tractate  on 
the  Inns  of  the  Middle  Ages,  which  he  picked  up  in  Paris. 
It  is  a  singular  circumstance  that  no  trace  can  be  gleaned 
of  his  having  paid  even  a  flying  visit  to  Holland;  yet  the 
Dutch  detail  is  so  strikingly  faithful  as  to  lead  to  the  be- 
lief that  he  must  have  done  so,  perhaps  circa  1859,  per- 


''''The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth^  283 

haps  many  years  previous  to  the  book  being  so  much  as 
dreamed  of.  This,  however,  must  be  taken  for  a  bare  sur- 
mise. In  private  life  he  was  silent  to  the  verge  of  tacitur- 
nity, and  it  seemed  to  be  a  rule  with  him  never  to  refer  to 
himself,  his  experience,  or  his  travels.  It  transpired,  for 
example,  in  his  later  years,  that  he  had  habitually  made 
purchases  of  pictures  and  curios  in  different  places;  yet 
when  he  sat  down  to  recollect  where  these  valuables  were 
waiting  to  be  called  for,  his  memory  was  at  fault.  Some 
he  recovered;  others,  indeed  most,  were  lost.  His  mind 
seemed  focussed  wholly  on  the  literary  work  he  had  in 
hand,  and  seldom,  if  ever,  to  stray  back  as  far  as  yesterday. 
He  was  not  only  uncommunicative,  but  mostly  oblivious; 
nevertheless,  so  vivid  was  his  imagination  that  he  could 
transport  himself  into  any  scene,  and  depict  it  accurately 
by  the  aid  of  books  or  pictures.  We  have  already  seen 
how  minutely  he  described  the  Australian  gold-diggings. 
It  is  quite  likely,  therefore,  that  he  may  have  pictured 
Holland  without  ever  setting  eyes  upon  its  canards,  ca- 
naux,  canaille.^ 

In  the  preface  to  "  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth  "  he 
states  that  the  major  portion  of  the  book  has  no  connection 
with  "  A  Good  Fight."  The  latter  work  has  now  practi- 
cally no  existence,  having  been  in  part  merged  in  the  for- 
mer.    He  used  his  pruning  knife,  moreover,  vigorously 

*  The  New  York  Herald,  in  an  obituary  notice  of  Charles  Reade,  is  re- 
sponsible for  an  assertion  that  he  journeyed  to  Germany  and  Holland  in 
order  to  collect  materials  for  "  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth."  We  arc  far 
from  desirous  of  contradicting  this  statement,  but  have  to  confess  ourselves 
powerless  to  verify  it.  The  writer  was  resident  within  the  walls  of  Mag- 
dalen College  during  the  period  when  Charles  Reade  was  engaged  on  the 
work,  and  also  in  constant  communication  with  him.  He  has  no  recollec- 
tion of  a  single  allusion  to  any  such  tour,  neither  has  any  other  relative. 


284  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

with  the  portions  he  did  retain;  and,  as  has  been  stated 
in  his  letters,  reversed  the  catastrophe,  thus  in  reality  cre- 
ating a  new  drama-novel. 

The  book  has  always  aroused  so  much  of  genuine  inter- 
est that  we  feel  justified  in  continuing  the  series  of  letters, 
scribbled  currente  calamo,  but  affording  an  inkling  as  to  its 
genesis.  His  researches  for  material  were  mainly  con- 
ducted at  Oxford.  He  ransacked  the  shelves  of  Magdalen 
College  Library,  a  mine  of  wealth  in  itself,  as  also  the 
Bodleian.  This  is  his  first  from  his  rooms  in  college  to 
Mrs.  Seymour. 

"Safe  arrived — self  and  puppy.  He  has  run  off  this 
morning,  and,  being  an  idiot,  is  lost  pro  tern. 

"I  came  down  with  a  Russian  —  probably  a  noble. 
Chatted  with  him,  asked  him  to  call  on  me,  which  he  did. 
I  showed  him  the  college,  but  could  not  get  much  out  of 
him  about  Russia.  He  seems  to  like  England  best  in  the 
world,  for  all  but  climate.  This  he  pronounces  more  mis- 
erable than  the  cold  of  Russia. 

"  He  says  he  never  felt  himself  a  man  till  he  knew  Eng- 
land, and  her  institutions,  customs,  and  laws.  I  asked  him 
if  the  officials  took  bribes  in  Russia,  as  reported,  and  he 
said  'Yes.' 

"I  have  corrected  the  MS.  Altogether  I  do  think 
that  'A  Good  Fight'  will  be  a  unique  story;  and  surely 
this  must  tell  sooner  or  later,  since  the  reader  thirsts  for 
novelty.    So,  courage,  la  cajnarade,  le  diahle  est  mart  /" 

Whether  he  forgot  that  he  had  written  on  the  previous 
day,  or  imagined  that  he  had  written  to  some  one  else, 
does  not  appear.  He  leads  off,  however,  with  a  repetition 
of  his  previous  announcement. 

"  Safe  arrived,  as  you  see.  The  Queen  came  down  to- 
day to  see  her  boy.    Unluckily  she  arrived  in  Magdalen 


''''The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth^''  285 

College  just  as  I  was  warming  on  a  little  scene — they  al- 
ways do,  you  know. 

"  Seriously,  if  she  had  come  at  a  fixed  hour,  I  would 
have  been  at  the  gate  to  receive  her. 

"But  any  time  from  12  to  2  was  another  thing.  Carlo 
is  very  ill.  I  can't  tell  whether  it  is  distemper  or  what. 
I  can't  make  him  eat  anything. 

"  To-day  I  got  oatmeal.  The  beggar  won't  touch  it ! 
I  got  to  work  nicely  to-day." 

Up  to  this  point  he  adhered  to  the  old  title,  "A  Good 
Fight."  He  now  seems  to  have  exchanged  it  for  that  the 
story  bears. 

Here  is  an  example  of  the  vicissitudes  of  an  author  in 
quest  of  material. 

"  Alas,  indeed,"  he  writes,  "  Stuck  !" 

"  That  is  to  say,  I  found  such  a  wealth  of  material  about 
hermits  in  Magdalen  College  Library  that  I  have  filled 
three  more  of  those  gigantic  cards. 

*'  Now  my  poor  little  head  seems  constructed  on  so  nar- 
row a  basis,  that  whenever  the  ardor  of  research  is  on,  the 
ardor  of  writing  is  extinct.  God  knows  whether  I  am  in 
the  right  path  or  not. 

"  Sometimes  I  think,  how  can  the  public  appreciate  or 
care  for  all  this  labor  ?  At  others  I  say,  what  real  rea- 
son have  I  to  suppose  that  vast  successes  have  ever  been 
achieved  without  labor  and  self-denial  ? 

"  Sometimes  I  say,  it  must  be  dangerous  to  overload  fic- 
tion with  facts. 

"  At  others,  I  think  fiction  has  succeeded  in  proportion 
to  the  amount  of  fact  in  it. 

"This  much  is  certain:  nobody  has  as  yet  produced  a 
true  hermit  in  fiction,  and  Cervantes  and  Scott  have- 
sham  nermit.     "~" 


286  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

"  Then,  when  I  find  about  five  hundred  famous  hermits 
in  the  Church,  and  no  age  without  them,  I  calculate  that 
there  must  have  been  five  hundred  thousand  obscure  ones, 
the  very  nature  of  the  character  being  to  avoid  notice. 
The  theory  then  assumes  an  importance  of  another  class, 
and  becomes  a  trait  in  human  nature. 

"  And,  from  the  year  a.d.  250  to  the  present  time,  1  find 
they  were  always  the  friends  of  animals.  To  be  sure,  one 
of  them  in  a  rage  (we  all  get  in  a  rage  sometimes)  did  ex- 
communicate a  mouse,  but  when  the  mouse  died  in  conse- 
quence, he  bitterly  repented. 

"  The  priest  to  whom  he  confessed  his  cruelty  with 
tears  of  compunction  said,  *  Drat  them  !  I  wish  you  had 
excommunicated  the  whole  race  !' 

"  I  have  filled  three  more  great  cards  with  the  matter, 
and  I  must  now  try  to  use  only  the  very  cream,  and  that 
dramatically,  not  preachingly.  It  is  too  late  in  the  story 
for  lecturing." 

The  next  letter  displays  symptoms  of  fatigue.  "  I  am 
under  way  again,"  he  writes,  "  but  rather  slowly.  I  think 
this  story  will  almost  wear  my  mind  out. 

"  However,  I  now  see  that,  if  I  had  not  read  all  about 
hermits,  and  worked  out  these  cards,  this  part  of  my  story 
must  have  been  all  false. 

"  I  have  got  a  squirrel  in  and  a  robin." 

He  appears  to  have  remained  without  a  break  in  col- 
lege, for  this,  as  the  previous  letters,  bears  the  Oxford 
postmark. 

"  Gerard,"  he  says,  "  is  now  Vicar  of  Gouda,  after  the 
grand  scenes  in  cell. 

"  Those  scenes  have  not  come  out  quite  so  brilliant  as  I 
hoped;  but  they  are  very  well,  and  the  situation  itself  has, 
I  think,  a  prodigious  value,  and  is  new  in  fiction. 


"2%d  Cloister  and  the  Rearthr  287 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  have  to  do  now,  but  a  few  desul- 
tory notices  of  his  career  as  a  parson,  and  then  the  un- 
pleasant task  of  killing  both  Margaret  and  him. 

"I  hope  to  get  to  you  safe  and  well  by  the  ninth  of 
September,  after  polishing  of  Ipsden  and  Farley  Hill. 
Shall  only  shoot  at  Ipsden.  Agree  with  you,  why  kill 
anything  as  long  as  there  are  butchers  ?" 

The  following  bears  the  date  Sept.  3,  and  is  from  Ips- 
den: 

"  I  send  you  up  the  greater  part  of  vols.  2  and  3 — '  The  Cloister  and  the 
Hearth.' 

"  Please  call  on  Mr.  Bentley  with  them  and  explain  that  vol.  1  will  end 
on  page  36  of  the  present  vol.  2,  making  360  pp. ;  vol.  2  either  at  50  or  98 
of  present  vol.  3,  at  the  end  of  that  string  of  strong  situations  with  which 
you  happen  to  be  acquainted,  as  I  read  them  to  you  at  Margate,  concluding 
with  G.'s  attempt  at  suicide. 

"  I  am  of  opinion  that  matters  quite  distinct  from  Mr.  Bentley's  desire 
to  do  business  with  me  on  liberal  terms,  of  which  I  am  convinced,  or  of 
the  merit  of  the  book  on  which  I  have  bestowed  such  prodigious  labor, 
will  prevent  our  coming  together  this  time. 

"  I  cannot,  therefore,  give  him  the  refiisal  upon  any  other  terms.  For 
I  feel  I  should  be  subjecting  my  whole  work  to  a  certain  refusal,  and  it  is 
not  worth  while. 

"  These  materials,  the  time  I  have  bestowed,  and  my  past  performances, 
furnish,  I  think,  sufficient  materials  for  a  commercial  decision.  You  can, 
however,  freely  add  whatever  you  know  of  the  plot,  and  situations,  etc., 
not  here  contained,  and  pray  give  Mr.  B.  an  unbiassed  opinion.  In  fact, 
you  can  read  him  this  letter  if  you  like.  I  shall  follow  very  shortly  on 
its  heels.  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  Charles  Rkadk." 

Two  months  later — the  autumn — he  writes  thus: 
"  I  think  I  shall  run  up  to  town  from  Saturday  till  Mon- 
day.   I  will  never  attempt  an  old-world  story  again.    Good 
heavens  !     How  often  have  I  been  stuck  ! 

"However,  I  have  done  150  pages,  and  don't  seem  to 


288  Memoir  of  Charles  Iteadc. 

dislike  the  story.  I  hope  to  cram  it  with  incidents,  but 
not  to  repeat  the  same  ones." 

Again  : 

"  Story  goes  slow.  But  is  to  be,  must  be,  successful — 
please  God. 

"  Henceforth  I  shall  remember  the  advice,  soyez  de  votre 
Steele.  I  am  convinced  that  learning  and  research  should 
be  applied  to  passing,  not  to  past,  events.  In  the  same 
sense  alone  is  Dickens  a  learned  man,  and  mark  the  result! 

"  By-the-bye,  I  have  accepted  his  invitation  for  the  18th 
Jan." 

Again,  a  few  weeks  later  : 

"  Denys  and  Gerard  are  parted,  and  the  story  is  now  in 
Holland,  and  I  hope  will  soon  be  at  Rome. 

"  When  I  have  brought  Gerard  back,  a  monk,  to  Tergou, 
I  hope  to  come  to  Bolton  Row,  since,  after  that,  the  mat- 
ter can  be  calculated  (I  think)  to  a  few  pages. 

"I  can't  tell  whether  it  will  succeed  or  not,  as  a  whole. 
But  there  shall  be  great,  and  tremendous,  and  tender  things 
in  it." 

Lastly,  from  Dogmore  End :  * 

"  You  will  be  glad  to  learn  that  last  night,  at  nine 
o'clock,  amidst  the  cheers  of  my  relations,  I  wrote  the 
last  page  of  this  tremendous  work,  which  in  all  probability 
will  impoverish  me  for  some  time  to  come. 

"  No  matter !  It  is  done  1  And  I  breathe  again. 
Strange  to  say,  the  last  fifteen  pages  went  smooth  as  oil ; 
and  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  parental  vanity,  but  I  think 
they  will  live  !" 

That  prediction  has  been,  will  be,  verified.  The  only 
difference  of  opinion  is  concerning  its  artistic  value,  both 

*  His  brother  William's  residence,  about  seven  miles  from  Henley-on- 
Thames. 


'■''The  Clouter  and  the  HearthP  289 

absolute  and  relative.  Here  there  exists  by  no  means  a 
general  consensus — not  a  few  of  his  critics  contending  that 
"Romola,"  which  followed  close  upon  its  heels,  contains 
characters  more  true  to  human  nature  and  mediaeval  life, 
and  sustains  the  interest  throughout  in  a  higher  degree. 

Without  prejudging  this  controversy  one  way  or  the 
other,  we  will  afford  our  readers  the  opportunity  of  con- 
trasting the  verdict  of  differing  critics,  and  for  this  pur- 
pose select,  on  the  side  of  Charles  Reade,  Mr.  Walter  Be- 
sant,  and  an  anonymous  writer  in  Once  a  Week;  and  on 
the  side  of  George  Eliot,  Mr.  W.  L.  Courtney  ;  with  Mr. 
A.  C.  Swinburne  as  neutral,  albeit  rather  for  Reade  than 
Eliot,  so  far  as  regards  this  particular  theme  and  its  treat- 
ment. 

First,  the  Pro's. 

Mr.  Besant  writes :  "  There  remains  one  book  of  his — ^it 
is  his  greatest  work — and,  I  believe,  the  greatest  historical 
novel  in  the  language.  I  mean  'The  Cloister  and  the 
Hearth.'  It  has  been  my  happy  lot  to  pasture  in  the  fair 
fields  of  mediaeval  literature,  and  my  delight  humbly  to 
attempt  from  time  to  time  the  restoration  of  life  as  it  was 
during  or  before  the  great  Renascence.  Now,  life  at  all 
times,  except  perhaps  during  the  cave  and  flint-Aveapon 
period,  has  been  and  is  many-sided,  complex,  and  perpetu- 
ally varying.  Think  how  it  will  fare  in  five  hundred  years 
with  the  writer  who  attempts  to  portray  England  in  this 
year  of  grace ;  by  what  mighty  labors — what  examination 
of  old  documents — what  comparisons,  reading  of  contem- 
porary essays,  descriptions  of  functions,  ceremonies,  and 
debates,  estimate  of  forces — as,  the  influence  of  the  Land 
League,  the  real  power  of  the  Nonconformists,  the  strength 
of  the  Church,  the  prejudices  of  the  people — he  will  arrive 
at  something  like  a  picture  of  life  as  it  is  now.  And  even 
13 


290  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

in  the  hands  of  the  most  skilful,  how  meagre  will  probably 
be  the  result!  Because  the  historian  will  not  be  able  to 
understand  the  relative  importance  of  questions,  nor  will 
he  perceive  that  what  seems  to  him  the  most  important 
of  events  may  have  seemed  to  us  a  mere  trifle  compared 
with  the  weight  of  a  speech  in  the  house,  or  a  new  book, 
or  even  an  article  in  a  magazine.  Therefore  I  do  not  say 
that  the  whole  of  life,  as  it  was  at  the  end  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  is  in  *  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth.'  But  I  do  say 
that  there  is  portrayed  so  vigorous,  lifelike,  and  truthful  a 
picture  of  a  time  long  gone  by,  and  differing  in  every  par- 
ticular from  our  own,  that  the  world  has  never  seen  its 
like.  To  me  it  is  a  picture  of  the  past  more  faithful  than 
anything  in  the  works  of  Scott.  As  one  reaj^s  it,  one  feels 
in  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  century^  flJ^^  breathes  the 
aiTjust  before~the  gfeal'dawTT^learning  and  rcliirion ;  it 
is  still  twilight,  but  the  birds  are  twittering  alroail y  on  the 
bqiighs;-itis.a  time  when  men  arc  weary  of  the  past,  there 
is  no  freshness  or  vigor  in  the  poetry;  all  the  tunes  arc. old 
^tunes.  There  is  plenty  of  fanaticism,  but  no  faith;  under 
the  tiara  the  Pope  yawns;  under  the  scarlet  cloak  the 
Cardinals  scoff;  in  his  chamber  the  scholar  asks  whether 
the  newly  found  Greek  is  not  better  than  all  the  ecclesias- 
tical jargon;  in  the  very  cloister  are  monks  secretly  at 
work  on  the  new  learning  and  cursing  the  stupid  iteration 
of  the  bell.  Even  the  children  of  the  soil  are  asking  them- 
selves, how  long  ?  Alas !  they  must  wait  till  the  greater 
Jacquerie  of  1792  relieves  them;  there  is  uncertainty  ev- 
erywhere ;  there  is  the  restless  movement  which  goes  be- 
fore a  change.  There  is,  however,  plenty  of  activity  in 
certain  directions.  Soldiers  fight  and  great  lords  lead 
armies;  there  are  court  ceremonies,  at  which  knights  feast 
and  common  people  gape;  prentice  lads  go  a  wandering 


'''■The  Cloister  and  the  HearthP  291 

along  the  roads;  with  them  tramp  the  vagrant  scholars; 
the  forests  are  full  of  robbers ;  the  beggars  are  a  nation  to 
themselves,  and  a  very  horrible,  noisome,  miserable  nation ; 
the  towns  are  crowded  within  narrow  walls;  fever  and  the 
plague  are  constantly  breaking  out;  there  is  no  ladder  by 
which  men  can  climb  except  that  lowered  for  them  by  the 
Church;  where  a  man  is  born,  there  he  sticks.  A  fine 
picturesque  time,  with  plenty  of  robberies  and  murders ; 
vast  quantities  of  injustice ;  with  lords  among  the  peasants, 
like  locusts  among  corn,  devouring  the  substance ;  with 
fierce  punishments  for  the  wicked,  but  not  so  fierce  as  those 
which  certainly  await  most  people  in  the  next  world;  with 
gibbets,  racks,  red-hot  pincers,  wheels,  processions  of  peni- 
tents, heavy  wax  candles,  cutting  off  of  hands,  and  every 
possible  stimulus  to  virtue;  yet  a  world  in  which  virtue 
was  singularly  rare.  All  this  life — and  more — is  in  *  The 
Cloister  and  the  Hearth'  not  described,  hut  acted.  The 
reader  who  knows  the  literature  of  the  time  says  to  him- 
self as  he  goes  on,  'Hero  is  Erasmus;  here  is  Froissart; 
here  is  Deschamps ;  hero  is  Coquillart ;  here  is  Gringoire ; 
here  is  Villon ;  here  is  Luther,'  and  so  on,  taking  pleasure 
in  proving  the  sources.  The  reader  who  does  not  know, 
or  does  not  inquire,  presently  finds  himself  drawn  com- 
pletely out  of  himself  and  his  own  times ;  before  he  reaches 
the  end  he  thinks  like  the  characters  in  the  book;  but,  be- 
sides, there  runs  through  it  the  sweetest,  saddest,  and  most 
tender  love-story  ever  devised  by  wit  of  man.  There  is 
no  heroine  in  fiction  more  dear  to  me  than  Margarc 


— always  real;  alwaysjhe  trtt6  woman;  bravein  the.^aj36«6*^ 
'Eour;  and  forever  yearning  m  wnnna.Ti1j  fast^j^p  fnn-tlwv- — -\ 
loye"  that  has  been  crucHy  torn  from  ISeir^ 

" '  Oh,  my  love,'  cried  the  lover-priest  at  her  death-bed, 
*if  thou  hadst  lived,  doubting  of  thy  Gerard's  heart,  die 


■+ 


292  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

/ 
^i^uo\,  so,  for  never  was  woman  loved  so  tenderly  as  thou  this 
ten  years  past.' 

"  *  Calm  thyself,  dear  one,'  said  the  dying  woman  with  a 
X/  heavenly  smile ;  *  I  knew  it,  only,  being  but  a  woman,  I 
(\^  could  not  die  happy  till  I  heard  thee  say  so.'' 

"  Comparison  between  *  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth ' 
and  'Romola'  is  forced  upon  one.  Both  books  treat  of 
the  same  period;  similar  pictures  should  be  presented  in 
the  pages  of  both.  Yet — what  a  difference !  In  the  man's 
work  we  find,  action,  life,  movement,  surprise,  reality.  In 
the  woman's  work  we  find  languor,  tedium,  and  the  talk  of 
nineteenth  -  century  puppets  dressed  in  fifteenth -century 
clothes.  Romola  is  a  woman  of  the  present  day ;  Tito  is 
a  man  of  the  present  day;  the  scholar  belongs  to  us;  Sa- 
vonarola is  like  a  hysterical  Ritualist  preacher;  Tessa  is 
a  modem  Italian  peasant  girl ;  nothing  is  mediieval  but 
the  names  and  the  costumes.  Yet  I  believe  there  may  be 
found  people  who  call  'Romola'  a  great  novel,  and  who 
have  not  even  read  the  story  of  '  Gerard  and  Margaret!'" 

The  above  is  a  lengthy  extract;  nevertheless  to  have 
curtailed  it  would  have  been  to  mutilate  the  ablest  brief 
that  has  been  held — and  without  retainer — for  the  author 
of  "  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth." 

The  next,  on  the  same  side,  issues  from  the  pen  of  an 
anonymous  writer,  and  is  closely  analytical.  Once  a  Week, 
for  the  sake  of  this  very  book,  had  quarrelled  with  its  most 
illustrious  contributor.  It  may  possibly  have  intended  the 
article  to  which  we  now  refer  as  an  amende.  It  may  be 
termed  fairly  an  apologetic  criticism,  as  genuine  as  it  is 
honorable. 

"In  1860,"  it  commences,  "Mr.  Reade  produced  a  me- 
diaeval novel  with  an  idea-ed  title,  *  The  Cloister  and  the 
Hearth.' 


"jTAe  Cloister  and  the  Hearth.''^  293 

"His  faithful  imitator  (George  Eliot)  soon  followed 
with  a  medieval  novel,  whose  title  was  un-idea-ed,  *  Rom- 
ola.' 

"Here  the  two  writers  meet  on  an  arena  that  tests  the 
highest  quality  they  both  pretend  to — imagination. 

"  What  is  the  result  ?  In  '  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth ' 
you  have  the  middle  ages  long  and  broad.  The  story  be- 
gins in  Holland,  and  the  quaint  Dutch  figures  live;  it  goes 
through  Germany,  and  Germany  lives ;  it  picks  up  a  French 
arbalestrier,  and  the  mediaeval  French  soldier  is  alive  again. 
It  goes  to  Rome,  and  the  Roman  men  and  women  live 
again. 

"Compare  with  this  the  narrow  canvas  of  *Romola,' 
and  the  faint  colors.  The  petty  politics  of  mediaeval  Flor- 
ence made  to  sit  up  in  the  grave,  but  not  to  come  out  of 
it.  The  gossip  of  modern  Florence  turned  on  the  mediae- 
val subjects  and  called  mediaeval  gossip.  Romola  herself 
is  a  high-minded,  delicate-minded,  sober-minded  lady  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  and  no  other.  She  has  a  gentle, 
but  tame  and  non-mediaeval,  affection  for  a  soft  egotist 
who  belongs  to  that  or  any  age  you  like.  One  great  histori- 
cal figure,  Savonarola,  is  taken,  and  turned  into  a  woman 
by  a  female  writer — sure  sign  imagination  is  wanting. 
There  is  a  dearth  of  powerful  incidents,  though  the  time 
was  full  of  them,  as  '  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth '  is  full 
of  them.  There  you  have  the  broad  features  of  that  mar- 
vellous age,  so  full  of  grand  anomalies ;  the  fine  arts  and 
the  spirit  that  fed  them — the  feasts,  the  shows,  the  do- 
mestic life,  the  laws,  the  customs,  the  religion,  the  roads 
and  their  perils,  the  wild  beasts  disputing  the  civilized 
continent  with  man — man  uppermost  by  day,  the  beasts 
by  night — the  hostelries,  the  robbers,  the  strange  vows,  the 
convents,  shipwrecks,  sieges,  combats,  escapes,  a  robber's 


294  Memoir  of  Charles  Jieade. 

slaughter-house  burned,  and  the  fire  lighting  up  trees  clad 
with  snow.  And  through  all  this  a  deep  current  of  love, 
passionate  yet  pure,  ending  in  a  mediaeval  poem ;  the  bat- 
tle of  ascetic  religion  against  our  duty  to  our  neighbors, 
which  was  the  great  battle  of  the  time  that  shook  religious 
souls.  But  perhaps  we  shall  be  told  this  comparison  is  be- 
side the  mark ;  that  a  dearth  of  incidents  is  better  than  a 
surfeit,  and  that  it  is  in  the  higher  art  of  drawing  charac- 
ters George  Eliot  stands  supreme,  and  Charles  Reade  fills 
an  insignificant  place.  We  will  abide  by  that  test  in  this 
comparison. 

"What  genuine  mediaeval  characters — to  be  compared 
with  those  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  for  instance — live  in  the 
memory,  after  reading  the  two  works  we  are  now  compar- 
ing? 

"'The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth'  is  a  gallery  of  such 
portraits,  painted  in  full  colors  to  the  life.  '  Romola '  is 
a  portfolio  of  delicate  studies.  'Romola'  leaves  on  the 
memory:  1.  A  young  lady  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the 
exact  opposite  of  a  mediaeval  woman.  2.  The  soft  egotist, 
an  excellent  type.  3.  An  innocent  little  girl.  4.  Savona- 
rola emasculated.  The  other  characters  talk  nineteen  to 
the  dozen,  but  they  are  little  more  than  voluble  shadows. 

"'The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth'  fixes  on  the  mind:  1. 
The  true  lover,  hermit,  and  priest,  Gerard.  2.  The  true 
lover,  mediaeval  and  northern,  Margaret  of  Sevenbergen. 
3.  Dame  Catharine,  economist,  gossip,  and  mother.  4.  The 
Dwarf  with  his  big  voice.  5.  The  angelic  cripple,  little 
Kate.  6.  The  Burgomaster.  7.  The  Burgundian  soldier, 
a  character  hewn  out  of  mediaeval  rock.  8.  The  gaunt 
Dominican,  hard  but  holy.  9.  The  Patrician  monk,  in  love 
with  heathenism,  but  safe  from  fiery  fagots  because  he 
believed  in  the  Pope.     10.  The  Patrician  Pope,  in  love 


"7%6  Cloister  and  the  Hearth:'  295 

with  Plutarch,  and  sated  with  controversy.  11.  The  Prin- 
cess Clcelia,  a  true  mediaeval.  12.  The  bravo's  wife,  a  link 
between  Ancient  and  Mediaeval  Rome. 

"  Philip  of  Burgundy  does  but  cross  the  scene ;  yet  he 
leaves  his  mark.  Margaret  Van  Eyck  is  but  flung  on  the 
broad  canvas,  yet  that  single  figure  so  drawn  has  suggested 
three  volumes  to  another  writer. 

"  You  can  find  a  thousand  Romolas  in  London,  because 
she  is  drawn  from  observation,  and  is  quite  out  of  place  in 
a  mediaeval  tale.  But  you  cannot  find  the  characters  of 
*  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,'  because  they  are  creations." 

Thus,  and  with  no  small  enthusiasm,  the  admirers  of 
Charles  Reade.  We  now  turn  to  others,  who,  though  will- 
ing to  admit  our  author's  ability,  view  him  from  a  stand- 
point of  their  own. 

First,  Mr.  W.  L.  Courtney: 

"  The  crucial  test  {i.  e.,  as  to  whether  the  ordinary  novel 
of  Charles  Reade  is  or  is  not  *  a  somewhat  amorphous  col- 
lection of  pieces  de  conviction ')  is  afforded  by '  The  Cloister 
and  the  Hearth.'  If  a  man  can  read  it  through  in  a  sitting, 
as  he  can  *  Griflith  Gaunt ;'  if  he  is  carried  through  it  with 
the  same  rapt  attention,  the  same  suspension  of  the  critical 
faculty  which  he  experiences  when  dealing  with  a  work 
of  real  artistic  construction,  then,  to  such  a  man  at  all 
events,  the  invention  in  the  book  is  of  equal  power  with 
the  facts.  But  if  he  takes  in  such  draughts  as  he  is  able 
to  stand,  being  incapable  of  assimilating  it  in  its  entirety; 
if  he  feels  now  and  again  as  if  he  were  laboriously  getting 
up  a  learned  work  on  the  Middle  Ages,  as  is  the  case,  it 
may  be  suspected,  with  most  readers,  that  the  natural  con- 
clusion is,  that  'The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,'  though  a 
work  of  great  learning  and  industry,  and  containing  in  the 
fortunes  of  Gerard  and  Margaret  a  love-story  of  almost 


29G  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

idyllic  sweetness,  is  yet  not  a  work  of  art.  *  Here,'  one 
may  say  (Mr.  Walter  Besant  has  actually  said  it),  '  is  Eras- 
mus, here  is  Froissart,  here  is  Deschamps,  here  is  Coquil- 
lart,  here  is  Gringoire,  here  is  Villon,  here  is  Luther;'  and 
just  for  that  reason  it  is  imperfect.  The  scholar's  learning 
is  standing  out  of  the  holes  in  the  artistic  armor;  it  smells 
too  much  of  the  academic  oil." 

This,  after  the  manner  of  inappreciative  censure,  while 
apparently  equitable,  overshoots  the  mark.  In  the  first 
place  "  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth "  in  point  of  length 
exceeds  "  Griffith  Gaunt "  by  more  than  a  third — nearly  a 
half,  and  that  alone  would  preclude  its  being  devoured  at 
a  sitting.  Moreover,  the  fortunes  of  Gerard  are  subjected 
to  a  natural  trichotomy.  He  is  genuine  lover,  rover,  and 
at  last  Platonic  lover — alias  priest,  and  the  story  follows 
this  division.  Each  part  is  homogeneous,  nor  will  most 
people  object  that  by  the  time  they  have  reached  the  con- 
clusion they  have  forgotten  the  antecedent  portions  of  the 
story.  This  allegation  of  ours  is  the  more  verifiable,  be- 
cause really  the  golden  thread  of  the  idyllic  love-story  is 
never  severed.  It  holds  together  the  members,  even  when 
they  seem  to  be  most  disjecta.  "The  Cloister  and  the 
Hearth  "  can  hardly  be  said  to  err  in  the  direction  of  an- 
other historical  novel,  "  John  Inglesant,"  which  for  lack 
of  an  idyllic  thread  rambles  aimlessly.  However,  Mr. 
Courtney  has  narrated  his  own  mental  sensations;  and  if 
those  of  the  average  reader  harmonize  with  them,  then  of 
course  there  must  be  some  force  in  his  contention.  We 
avow  ourselves  under  the  impression  that  he  stands  almost 
alone  in  discovering  no  magic  spell  in  a  work  of  genius,  as 
well  as  of  research — but  of  course  we  may  be  partial. 
Quot  homvies  tot  sententim.  There  are  some  people  whom 
"Hamlet"  bores,  and  who  snore  through  "As  You  Like  It." 


'-'-The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth."  297 

Mr.  S.  S.  Conant,  of  The  Albany  Evening  Journal^  U.S.A., 
is  responsible  for  a  story  concerning  Cliarles  Reade  which 
seems  to  indicate  that  he  himself  was  more  inclined  towards 
Mr.  Courtney's  than  towards  Mr.  Besant's  view.  A  stranger 
once  complimented  him  on  "  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth  " 
as  his  best  novel,  whereupon  the  author's  eye  flashed  in- 
dignation, and  he  told  his  eulogist,  then  and  there,  that  if 
that  was  his  opinion,  he  was  only  fit  for  a  lunatic  asylum. 

We  have,  perhaps  inequitably,  placed  Mr.  Swinburne 
partly  in  the  same  category  with  Mr.  Courtney.  Both 
writers  are  masters  of  English  and  of  analysis;  but  the 
latter  being  an  essayist  pure  and  simple,  and  himself  un- 
dramatic,  has  less  affinity  with  the  dramatist,  and  more 
with  the  philosophical  writer  who  utilized  her  slender  tales 
to  adorn  a  profound  philosophy,  and  pointed  her  satire 
on  faith  by  means  of  character.  Mr.  Swinburne  is  more 
righteous  than  Mr.  Courtney,  in  that  he  blends  criticism 
with  appreciation.  "  Mr.  Reade's  didactic  types,  or  moni- 
tory figures,"  he  writes,  "are  almost  unmistakable — and 
unmistakable  as  failures.  Hawes,  and  even  Grotait  are 
not  the  creatures  of  a  dramatist,  they  are  the  creatures  of 
a  mechanist ;  you  see  the  action  of  the  wire-puller  behind, 
at  every  movement  they  make;  you  feel  at  every  word 
they  utter  that  the  ruffian  is  speaking  by  the  book,  talking 
in  character,  playing  up  to  his  part.  Too  refined  and 
thoughtful  an  artist  to  run  the  least  risk  of  such  an  error, 
George  Eliot,  on  the  other  hand,  wanted  the  dramatic 
touch,  the  skilful  and  vivid  sleight  of  craftmanship, 
which  gives  a  general  animation  at  once  to  the  whole 
group  of  characters,  and  to  the  whole  movement  of  the 
action  in  every  story,  from  the  gravest  to  the  slightest, 
ever  written  by  Charles  Reade.  A  story  better  conceived, 
or  better  composed,  better  constructed,  or  better  related 
13* 


298  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

than  '  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,'  it  would  be  difficult 
to  find  anywhere;  while  the  most  enthusiastic  devotees  of 
'  Romola '  must  surely  admit  the  well-nigh  puerile  insuf- 
ficiency of  some  of  the  resources  by  which  the  story  has 
to  be  pushed  forward,  or  warped  round,  before  it  can  be 
got  into  harbor.  There  is  an  almost  infantile  audacity  of 
awkwardness  in  the  device  of  handing  your  heroine  at  a 
pinch  into  a  casually  empty  boat,  which  drifts  her  away 
to  a  casualty  plague-stricken  village,  there  to  play  the  part 
of  a  casual  sister  of  mercy,  dropped  from  the  sky  by  provi- 
dential caprice  at  the  very  nick  of  time,  when  the  novelist 
was  at  a  loss  for  some  more  plausible  contrivance,  among 
a  set  of  people  equally  strange  to  the  reader  and  herself. 

"  Again,  I  must  confess  my  agreement  with  the  critics 
who  find  in  her  study  of  Savonarola  a  laborious,  conscien- 
tious, absolute  failure — as  complete  as  the  failure  of  his 
own  actual  attempt  to  purge  and  renovate  the  epoch  of  the 
Borgias  by  what  Mr.  Carlyle  would  have  called  the  'Mor- 
rison's Pill'  of  Catholic  Puritanism.  Charles  Reade's 
'Dominican'  is  worth  a  dozen  such  *wersch,'  ineffectual, 
invertebrate  studies,  taken  by  marshlight  and  moonshine, 
as  this  spectre  of  a  spectre,  which  flits  across  the  stage  of 
romance  to  as  little  purpose  as  did  its  original  across  the 
page  of  history;  but  when  we  come  to  the  minor  characters 
and  groups,  the  superiority  of  the  male  novelist  is  so  ob- 
vious, and  so  enormous,  that  any  comparison  between  his 
breathing  figures  and  the  stiff,  thin  outlines  of  George 
Eliot's  phantasmal  puppets  would  be  unfair,  if  it  were  not 
unavoidable.  The  variety  of  life,  the  vigor  of  action, 
the  straightforward  and  easy  mastery  displayed  at  every 
step  and  in  every  stage  of  the  fiction,  would  of  themselves 
be  enough  to  place  *  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth '  among 
the  very  greatest  masterpieces  of  narrative ;   while  its 


"2%e  Cloister  and  the  Hearth.^''  299 

tender  truthfulness  of  sympathy,  its  ardor  and  depth  of 
feeling,  the  constant  sweetness  of  its  humor,  the  frequent 
passion  of  its  pathos,  are  qualities  in  which  no  other  tale 
of  adventure  so  stirring  and  incident  so  inexhaustible  can 
pretend  to  a  moment's  comparison  with  it — unless  we  are 
foolish  enough  to  risk  a  reference  to  the  name  by  which 
no  contemporary  name  can  hope  to  stand  higher,  or  shine 
brighter,  for  prose,  or  for  verse,  than  does  Shakespeare's 
greatest  contemporary  by  the  name  of  Shakespeare." 

To  quote  another  word  after  this  magnificent  exordium 
would  be  impertinent  and  of  the  nature  of  anti-climax. 
We  said  that  Mr.  Swinburne  approached  Charles  Reade 
with  the  censorship  of  a  critic.  His  noble  words  tell  in  an 
excess  of  majestic  language  his  enthusiasm,  and  that — not 
sarcasm — is  the  highest  form  of  intelligent  criticism. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 
"hakd  cash." 

Foe  once  the  public  and  the  critics  were  unanimous, 
and  the  chorus  of  approval  which  greeted  "  The  Cloister 
and  the  Hearth"  gave  its  author  heart  of  grace.  The 
great  book  was  alike  so  much  of  a  study,  and  so  altogether 
a  poem,  as  to  have  placed  Charles  Reade  in  the  foremost 
rank  of  literature.  No  carping  detractor  could  decry  it 
as  sensational.  No  candid  friend  could  condemn  it  with 
faint  praise.  It  exacted  homage  from  every  man  and 
woman  of  brains ;  and  henceforward  the  name  of  Charles 
Reade  could  never  be  mentioned  except  with  honor. 

Imitation  is  the  sincerest  form  of  flattery,  and  the  lady 
who,  at  the  moment,  and  indeed  since,  was  being  steadily 
written  up  under  the  style  of  the  greatest  of  contemporary 
novelists,  at  once  bowed  the  knee  before  success,  and  set 
to  work  to  plough  with  Charles  Reade's  heifer. 

We  may  remark  here,  passim,  that  the  artistic  ideal  of 
the  author  of  "  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,"  and  that  of 
the  author  of  "  Romola,"  were  dissimilar.  The  former, 
even  in  four  volumes,  could  be  nothing  if  not  dramatic. 
The  latter  was  by  nature  so  essentially  undramatic  as  when 
she  attempted  a  situation  to  plunge  hopelessly  out  of  her 
depth,  and  barely  escape  a  bathos  by  concealing  her  utter 
incapacity  under  a  thick  veil  of  description.  George  Eliot, 
in  respect  of  style,  depth  of  thought,  and  diagnosis  of  char- 
acter, justly  commanded  universal  admiration;  indeed,  her 


'■''Hard  CashP  301 

artistic  excellence  must  have  been  supreme  in  that  it  could 
invest  the  tame  and  commonislace  with  a  special  charm. 
"Whether  she  would  not  have  risen  higher  had  she  been  less 
prolix,  and  more  dramatic,  may  be  open  to  surmise.  Enough 
that,  if  she  could  esteem  Charles  Reade  so  thoroughly 
as  to  adopt  ostentatiously  a  theme  he  had  made  his  own, 
he  in  turn  was  by  no  means  so  appreciative  of  her  pen.  He 
rated  Mr.Wilkie  Collins  far  above  George  Eliot  on  account 
of  his  mastery  in  the  art  of  plot- weaving  ;  indeed,  to  be 
candid,  we  have  to  admit  on  behalf  of  our  author,  a  some- 
what faulty  appreciation  of  a  genius  in  every  way  dissimi- 
lar to  himself.  The  late  Mr.  Winwood  Reade  narrated 
concerning  the  sable  houris  of  Central  Africa  that  they 
shrank  from  the  white  man,  not  merely  as  repulsive,  but  as 
being,  in  respect  of  complexion — from  their  point  of  view 
— ^leprous.  In  like  fashion  Charles  Reade  revolted  from  a 
novel,  differing  toto  coelo  from  a  drama  in  novel  form. 
Such  a  work  of  art  not  merely  failed  to  please,  it  positively 
irritated  him.  The  following  letter  displays  somewhat  of 
this  temper.  His  nature,  we  must  premise  with  the  strong- 
est emphasis,  was  much  too  high-souled  to  be  capable  of 
the  pettiness  of  jealousy,  least  of  all,  of  a  woman.  He 
could  pay  a  handsome  tribute  to  such  lady  novelists  as  Miss 
Braddon,  Ouida,  Miss  Broughton,  and  his  niece,  the  author 
of  "Rose  and  Rue."  He  worshipped  Charles  Dickens, 
honored  Thackeray,  and  on  one  occasion  thought  Trollope 
worth  dramatizing.  But  he  had  no  stomach  for  the  ful- 
some eulogy  piled  on  George  Eliot,  the  less  so  because  it 
became  an  open  secret  that  this  bold  advertisement  was  the 
outcome  of  judicious  wire-pulling.  As  an  artist  he  con- 
ceived it  the  right  of  every  member  of  his  craft  to  demand 
a  fair  field  and  no  favor.  No  marvel,  therefore,  if  when, 
stung  by  a  keen  sense  of  injustice,  be  delivered  himself 


802  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

rather  slightingly  of  the  idol  before  whom,  at  the  bidding 
of  her  own  Nebuchadnezzar  behind  the  scenes,  the  entire 
press  of  England  did  obeisance. 

To  Mrs.  Seymour  he  writes:  "  I  send  you  both  The  Corn- 
hiU  and  Temple  Bar  by  book  post,  since  there  is  matter  in 
each  that  interests. 

"  I  can  see  no  trace  of  George  Eliot  in  the  story  called 
*Romola' — yet  I  don't  know  how  to  escape  the  conclusion 
that  it  is  her;  for  a  story  by  George  Eliot  is  advertised  in 
the  July  number  of  Tfie  ComhiU,  and  in  the  current  num- 
ber of  T?ie  AtJietKBU7n,  and  Thackeray  is  displaced  to  make 
room  for  the  garrulous  lady  or  gentleman,  whichever  it  be. 

"  However,  after  all  I  am  not  well  read  in  Georgy  Porgy's 
works.  But  certainly  this  does  not  come  up  to  my  idea  of 
her.  Is  it  egotism,  or  am  I  right  in  thinking  that  this 
story  of  the  fifteenth  century  has  been  called  into  exist- 
ence by  my  success  wdth  the  same  epoch  ?  If  it  is  Georgy 
Porgy,  why  then  Lewes  has  been  helping  her!  All  the 
worse  for  her.  The  gray  mare  is  the  better  horse.  Any- 
way I  hope  this  is  the  story  that  Smith  has  been  ass  enough 
to  give  £5000  for." 

There  is  an  acerbity  in  this,  accentuated  perhaps  by  the 
conviction  that  his  good  friend  Mr.  Smith,  whom  elsewhere 
he  styles  "  The  Prince  of  Publishers,"  and  "  That  most 
princely  gentleman,"  should  lose  by  "Romola."  Apart 
from  that,  the  mind  which  had  devoted  years  of  incessant 
toil  to  this  same  fifteenth  century  could  but  be  sensitive 
of  anachronisms,  and  conscious  of  faulty  drawing.  Of 
course  it  was  galling  to  perceive  a  subservient  press  be- 
lauding a  distorted  picture,  and  far  exceeding  the  praise  it 
had  grudgingly  awarded  his  own  masterpiece.  Moreover, 
if  ever  there  lived  a  man  inspired  with  a  passion  for  jus- 
tice, it  was  Charles  Reade.    This  virtue  to  him  meant  all 


^^Hard  Cash.^^  303 

tbe  virtues  condensed,  and  Lis  championship  of  Fletcher, 
Lambert,  the  Stauntons, Valentine  Baker,  and  many  others, 
proved  conclusively  that  if  he  did  resent  injustice  to  him- 
self, he  was  even  more  ready  to  avenge  others.  George 
Eliot,  who  needed  no  factitious  support,  bounced  on  the 
stage  to  play  to  a  house  crammed  in  every  inch  with  the 
claque.  The  anti-Christian  ring,  which  to  an  almost  in- 
definite extent  influences  the  daily  and  weekly  press  and 
the  leading  magazines,  rallied  to  a  man  round  the  strong 
woman — strong  in  her  will,  in  her  animalism,  in  her  com- 
mand of  thought  and  diction — and  by  a  combined  effort 
placed  her  on  a  pinnacle;  while  so  subtle  was  her  method 
that  the  warmest  advocates  of  the  very  Christianity  she 
held  up  to  ridicule  were  hoodwinked  into  joining  in  the 
general  chorus  of  admiration.  Charles  Reade  held  her 
cheap,  simply  because  he  realized  more  acutely  than  the 
rest  the  inherent  defect  of  her  art;  but  it  may  safely  be 
affirmed  that  he  would  have  passed  her  unnoticed  but  for 
the  venal  paeans  that  deafened  his  ears  and  aroused  his 
righteous  indignation.  Since  then  much  has  happened,  and 
George  Eliot,  her  works  and  ways,  may  be  safely  relegated 
to  the  judgment  of  the  twentieth  century.  Not  Charles 
Reade  alone,  but  others  also,  have  little  reason  to  dread  the 
ultimate  verdict,  the  contrast  between  puffery  and  priority. 
The  process  of  natural  selection,  which  already  has  elimi- 
nated from  the  book- shelf  some  tons  of  temporary  successes, 
may  yet  dispense  with  such  interminable  nebula?  as,  for  ex- 
ample, "  Daniel  Deronda."  Even  genius,  minus  dramatic 
instinct,  mole  ruit  sud. 

It  has  been  narrated  already  how — in  the  interests  of  the 
justice  he  loved  so  ardently — Charles  Reade  extracted  the 
young  man  Fletcher  from  an  asylum,  and  provided  him 
with  alimony  and  law  expenses  for  an  entire  twelvemonth. 


304  Memoir  of  CJiarles  lieade. 

The  chief  witnesses  for  the  sanity  of  this  alleged  lunatic 
were  Doctors  Dickson  and  Rutledge.  With  the  former  of 
these  gentlemen  Charles  Reade  established  friendly  rela- 
tions, and  eventually  induced  him  to  place  in  his  hands  a 
mass  of  material  relating  to  the  subject  of  lunacy  generally 
and  the  working  of  the  existing  lunacy  laws.  It  is  to  this 
fact  that  we  are  indebted  for  perhaps  the  most  thrilling  of 
all  Charles  Reade's  romances. 

In  the  preface  to  "  Hard  Cash  "  its  author  states  that, 
"  like  '  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,'  it  is  a  mattei'-of-fact 
romance;  a  fiction  built  on  truths;  and  that  these  same 
truths  have  been  gathered  by  long,  severe,  and  systematic 
labor,  from  a  multitude  of  volumes,  pamphlets,  journals,  re- 
ports, blue-books,  manuscript  narratives^  letters,  and  living 
people  sought  out,  examined,  and  cross-examined  to  get  at 
the  truth  on  each  main  topic."  The  manuscript  narratives 
here  referred  to  were  from  the  pen  of  Dr.  Dickson  himself. 
They  were  digested,  analyzed,  and  purged  of  superfluities 
by  the  patient  care  of  Charles  Reade,  and,  after  that,  clas- 
sified for  use  under  the  generic  title,  "  Dickybirdiana." 
That,  however,  was  not  enough.  The  medical  man  who 
had  a  soul  above  his  profession,  and  moreover  was  blessed 
with  a  very  pronounced  individuality  of  his  own,  deserved 
a  niche  in  the  book  to  which  he  supplied,  not  indeed  art, 
but  raw  material,  and  Charles  Reade  has  accordingly  res- 
cued the  worthy  man  from  oblivion. 

"  Dickybird,"  he  writes  from  Magdalen,  "  comes  down 
to-day  to  sit  for  his  portrait  (unconsciously)." 

Like  "  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,"  "  Hard  Cash"  was 
written  almost  entirely  within  the  college  walls.  It  was  a 
dreary  life  for  a  man  so  completely  out  of  tune  with  Ox- 
ford. With  the  single  exception  of  his  nephew,  who  as 
chaplain  resided  in  college,  but  was  much  occupied  with 


clerical  and  tutorial  work,  he  associated  with  no  one,  rarely 
entering  the  common  room,  never  dining  in  hall,  and  at- 
tending the  chapel  only  on  Sunday  afternoon.  The  hours 
were  spent  in  the  libraries  or  at  his  desk.  He  complained 
bitterly  of  dulness,  and  seems  to  have  had  almost  a  school- 
boy's longing  for  home;  yet  he  stuck  manfully  to  his  self- 
imposed  task.  For  he  was  possessed  by  a  double  ambition, 
to  add  to  his  laurels,  and  to  effect  another  social  reform. 
It  was  his  mission  to  gibbet  abuses  and  injuries,  to  set  the 
ball  rolling,  in  the  hope  that  sooner  or  later  the  legislature 
would  spare  a  week  or  so  from  the  incessant  game  of 
scrambling  for  office,  in  order  to  stamp  his  ideas  with  the 
hall-mark  of  authority.  He  was  the  pioneer,  and  nobody 
thanked  him,  nobody  recognized  his  honest  labor.  Virtue 
in  his  case  was  its  own  reward. 

Charles  Dickens  appears  to  have  made  overtures  to  him 
for  a  serial  on  more  than  one  occasion.  Since  Bulwer's 
original  introduction  they  had  become  such  warm  friends 
that  afterwards  he  referred  to  Dickens  as  "my  master." 
Immediately  on  the  appearance  of  "  The  Cloister  and  the 
Hearth,"  Mr.  Wills,  the  great  novelist's  partner  in  All  the 
Year  Hound,  submitted  a  tangible  proposal,  to  which  at 
first  Charles  Reade  demurred,  not  so  much  on  the  score  of 
terms — £5  a  page  being  the  sum  offered — as  because  Mr. 
Wills  wished  to  retain  the  American  rights,  at  that  time 
worth  about  £300. 

The  following  to  Mrs.  Seymour  is,  apparently,  from  Mag- 
dalen: "  I  am  sorry,"  he  writes, "  the  letter  and  agreement " 
(query,  draft-agreement  ?)  "  are  locked  up  indefinitely,  as  it 
makes  it  difficult  for  me  to  reply  to  Dickens's  invitation. 
I  think  I  shall  simply  send  him  a  line  that  I  have  been 
advised  of  Wills's  missive,  but  it  is  not  yet  come  to  hand; 
and  I  am  here  for  some  days. 


306  Memoir  of  CharUs  Itcade. 

"  The  post  is  an  excellent  institution,  though  you  ladies 
hate  it  so  as  a  vehicle. 

"  I  have  had  a  fine  rout  among  my  papers,  and  am  get- 
ting into  beautiful  order. 

"Before  letting"  (query, Bolton  Row?)  "I  shall  relieve 
the  storeroom  of  some  more  of  my  rubbish,  and  store  it 
in  my  old  boxes  in  the  back  bedroom.  This  will  leave 
me  room  for  my  note-books,  my  invaluable  note-books, 
with  which  I  have  done  nothing,  literally  nothing,  up  to 
date. 

"  I  think  they  must  have  me  for  AU  the  Year  Round, 
for  Dickens  is  working  on  a  shilling  serial,  and  Collins  go- 
ing to  Comhill.  So  I  shall  stand  firm  about  the  Ameri- 
can  sheets,  and,  please  God,  shall  publish  the  new  story, 
hot  (^.  e.,  writing  each  number  up  to  time,  instead  of  com- 
pleting the  whole  before  commencement)  for  All  the  Year 
Mound.  A  clause  gives  me  the  right  to  bring  it  out  three 
weeks  before  terminating  in  the  periodical,  and  when  we 
have  made  £5000  by  publication  we  will  combine  a  little 
dramatic  spec." 

Pending  the  settlement  of  terms  with  Mi*.  Dickens,  he 
seems  to  have  been  engaged  in  dramatizing  "It  is  Never 
Too  Late  to  Mend,"  and  this  probably  is  the  "  spec."  to 
which  he  alludes.     His  next  letter  runs  thus: 

"  Last  night  young  Yates  performed  a  lecture,  and  I  fell 
in  with  him.  Asked  this  evening  by  Mr.  Alderman  Spiers 
to  meet  him  and  a  painter,  and  Mr.  Hepworth  Dixon.  I 
am  going. 

"  I  believe  personal  contact  softens  downright  asperities  " 
(this  appears  to  have  reference  to  the  immemorial  feud  be- 
tween Town  and  Gown,  Mr.  Spiers  being  a  local  trades- 
man of  a  very  high  culture — a  noble-minded  citizen) .  "  We 
shall  see. 


"■Hard  CashP  307 

"  Would  you  believe  it  ?  I  was  so  interrupted  yester- 
day that  I  had  only  time  to  reach  the  coup  of  Crawley  be- 
ing brought  on  arrested,  and  you  know  IwonH  work  Sun- 
day/. I  think  a  quarter  of  an  hour  on  Monday  ought  to 
do  it. 

"Dickens's  duplicate  agreement  is  signed  and  sent  to 
Magdalen  College,  Cambridge,  so  Wills  tells  me  in  a  hu- 
morous note.  However,  the  bargain  is  struck,  and  I  must 
put  my  shoulder  at  once  to  the  wheel. 

*'  Smith's  note  offered  me  £2000  for  a  novel — copyright 
four  years — lowest  price  5s,,  and  another  £1000  if  pub- 
lished in  the  Cornhill  Magazine.  Cash  down  on  receipt  of 
MS.  Please  not  speak  of  it,  but  advise  me  if  you  can.  The 
objection  is,  that  he  wishes  to  hold  the  absolute  discre- 
tion of  publishing  it  in  2%e  Cornhill  or  not.  Now  £2000 
might  not  compensate  me  for  the  loss  of  the  periodical 
market.  Suppose  he  decided  only  to  publish  as  a  book ! 
For  instance,  Dickens  gives  me  £800.  Add  America  £300, 
the  balance  of  £2000  is  only  £900.  But  my  Library  Edi- 
tion is  worth  more  than  that,  or  full  that.  However,  you 
think  of  it.     I  am  puzzled,  and  have  not  yet  replied." 

The  sentence  "  I  won't  work  Sunday  "  may  be  quoted 
as  one  among  many  indications  of  religious  feeling,  the 
undercurrent  which,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  was  to  roll  in  a 
grand  volume  to  the  surface.  Taken  with  numerous  oth- 
er excerpts  from  his  letters  and  his  books,  it  may  serve  as 
a  rejoinder  to  the  slander  of  a  soi-disant  friend,  who  hurled 
against  him,  while  his  remains  were  barely  cold,  the  charge 
of  religious  melancholia.  He  would  not  have  thanked 
such  friendship. 

Mr.  Edmund  Yates,  in  the  columns  of  77ie  World,  bright- 
ened a  characteristic  obituary  notice  of  our  author  by  a 
genial  reference  to  the  knight-service  rendered  him  by 


308  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

his  brother  -  citizen  of  the  republic  of  literati.  "Many 
years  ago,"  be  wrote,  "  I  went  to  lecture  at  Oxford,  stay- 
ing with  Mr.  Spiers,  where  Hepworth  Dixon  and  E.  M. 
Ward,  R.A.,  were  my  fellow-guests.  Just  before  going 
into  the  lecture-room  I  was  told  by  Mr.  Phen6  Spiers,  the 
well-known  architect,  that  it  was  the  pleasant  custom  of 
the  undergraduates  to  chaff  and  bait  every  lecturer.  Pre- 
pared by  this,  after  I  had  spoken  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
with  constant  interruptions,  I  closed  my  notes,  remarking, 
as  they  did  not  wish  to  hear  me,  I  certainly  had  no  desire 
to  address  them ;  and,  wishing  them  '  good-evening,'  re- 
tired from  the  platform.  The  place  was  full,  and  there 
were  many  people  who  had  come  from  a  distance,  and  had 
ordered  their  carriages  an  hour  later;  but  I  was  firm  in  my 
refusal  to  continue,  and  this  caused  a  tremendous  row,  with 
many  threats  of  personal  violence,  from  which  I  was  only 
extricated  by  the  appearance  on  the  scene  of  the  well- 
known  form  of  Charles  Reade,  who,  haranguing  the 
mob,  claimed  me  as  an  old  friend,  and  declared  I  was 
perfectly  right  in  declining  to  submit  to  their  imperti- 
nence. 

"Reade's  rooms  at  Magdalen  were  an  extraordinary 
sight,  books  piled  on  the  floor  and  elsewhere  in  endless 
profusion,  MSS.  littered  about,  scarcely  a  chair  to  be 
found — more  like  Mr.  Fips's  rooms  in  Austin  Friars,  into 
which  Tom  Pinch  was  inducted." 

It  will  be  remarked  that  Charles  Reade  does  not  so 
much  as  hint  that  he  was  the  Deus  ex  machind  to  save 
Mr.  Edmund  Yates's  skin,  but  that  the  latter  gentleman 
hastened  to  acknowledge  the  obligation.  The  incident 
was  equally  honorable  to  both. 

From  that  moment  onwards  our  author  labored  to  pro- 
duce "  Hard  Cash,"  availing  himself  occasionally  of  what 


^^Hard  CashJ^  309 

distractions  Oxford  could  afford.  This  is  what  he  has  to 
say  after  a  short  spell  of  work: 

"  I  wish  I  could  write  more  cheerfully  about  the  story  ; 
but  it  is  no  use  telling  lies.  I  feel  as  if  there  was  go  in 
me.  But  it  is  partly  Dickson's  fault.  His  ill-written,  in- 
articulate compositions  have  almost  broken  my  heart. 
Never  was  there  a  writer  so  inconsecutive  and  ill-arranged. 
Well,  he. shall  pay  for  it.  I  have  pasted  a  whole  screen 
over  with  his  lines  and  topics,  arranging  them  in  some- 
thing like  order. 

"  There  has  been  a  great  cricket  match,  all  England 
eleven  against  sixteen  of  Oxford.  Three  days'  match,  re- 
sulting in  a  tie.  My  nephew,  captain  of  the  University 
players  "  (Henry  St.  John  Reade,  then  scholar  of  University 
College,  afterwards  the  Squire  of  Ipsden),  "  distinguished 
himself  considerably.  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  the  match,  in- 
cluding the  finish.     It  was  wonderfully  exciting. 

"  I  have  invited  three  undergraduates  to  dinner,  on  the 
distinct  understanding  they  are  to  be  pumped. 

"  This  is  all.  You  may  imagine  how  monotonous  life  is; 
but  I  should  be  happy  enough  if  I  saw  the  story  growing." 

Again,  a  few  days  later: 

"  Here  are  great  facilities  for  reading.  The  Radcliffe 
Library  is  fitted  up  like  the  British  Museum.  A  good 
stock  of  books  are  within  your  reach  in  the  building,  and 
they  communicate  with  the  Bodleian,  and  get  you  any 
book  you  want.  I  have  read  and  taken  notes,  but  cannot 
write.  Don't  feel  to  know  enough.  But  it  is  always  the 
same  story  now.  And  I  always  end  by  getting  over  it, 
you  know. 

"  The  three  numbers  that  are  written  read  well.  It  is 
Dickson  gives  me  so  much  trouble  with  his  confounded 
unmethodical  way  of  writing.    However,  I  have  papered 


310  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

one  side  of  a  screen  with  classified  extracts  from  his  works, 
and  now  I  am  at  others.  I  mean  to  make  him  break  out 
from  prose  to  verse  in  conversation  just  as  he  does,  and  to 
use  his  own  lines.     It  will  be  new  and  droll,  I  think." 

Again,  two  months  later: 

"  I  do  nothing  but  write  '  Hard  Cash,'  and  veiy  hard 
work  it  is.  I  send  another  number  by  this  post,  and  real- 
ly it  does  not  read  badly.  To-day  I  finish  the  number  I 
ought  to  have  finished  yesterday,  landing  A.  in  asylum  3, 
whence  he  escapes,  I  hope,  in  the  next  number.  I  have 
got  too  much  work  in  hand  to  be  very  dull." 

This  was  succeeded  by  a  somewhat  brighter  letter. 

"  Your  beautiful  friends,  the  deer,"  he  writes,  "  have  de- 
veloped a  trait  which  I  remember  of  old.  They  fight  in 
October,  and  always  on  Sunday."  (N.B.  His  rooms  looked 
out  on  the  deer  park  of  the  College.)  "Yesterday  I  heard 
the  well-known  click  of  the  horns.  I  looked  out  and  there 
was  a  brown  deer  and  a  fallow  deer  "  (query,  dappled  ? — all 
the  Magdalen  deer  are  fallow)  "  hard  at  it.  They  fought 
for  about  an  hour,  in  which  they  worked  round  to  the 
front.  I  came  down  and  found  the  brown  driven  against 
the  wall,  and  the  other  facing.  Presently  I  saw  the  brown 
down,  and  knowing  he  must  be  killed  if  something  was  not 
done,  I  ran  up  and  drove  the  fallow  away. 

"  Presently  an  idiot  of  an  undergraduate,  not  content  to 
let  well  alone,  gets  over  the  rails;  but  this  brought  the 
brown  one  up,  who  ran  a  little  way,  and  then  sank  down,  in 
which  posture  the  other  vicious  brute  instantly  made  at 
him,  and  gave  him  an  awful  push. 

"  It  seemed  to  take  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  if  it  did,  he 
is  venison.  But  I  really  believe  he  was  clever  enough  to 
turn  his  head  even  in  that  posture,  and  receive  it  on  his 
horns.    At  least  I  see  him  about  to-day,  though  rather  stiflf. 


^^Hard  Cashy  311 

"  I  have  contrived  to  leave  behind  me  two  small  brown 
volumes  called  '  Voyages  de  Montaigne.'  They  are  bound 
exactly  like  '  Rabelais,'  which  is  on  the  hall  table,  I  think. 
Will  you  send  them  down  with  all  despatch,  accompanied, 
if  possible,  by  '  Herder's  Epidemics,'  which  I  lent  Dr.  Dick- 
son ?  It  is,  however,  *  Montaigne '  I  am  most  in  want  of. 
I  feel  like  a  man  walking  up  a  mountain.  What  I  have 
done  is  good,  I  think;  but  so  much  seems  to  be  done." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  aforesaid  stag  was  so  severely 
wounded  that  it  had  to  be  taken  to  the  college  stables 
and  assigned  a  stall.  Here,  under  the  fostering  care  of 
John,  the  groom,  it  grew  so  singularly  domesticated  that 
it  would  eat  bread  out  of  your  hand,  and  seemed  quite 
grateful  for  being  preserved  from  its  implacable  enemy. 
It  recovered,  put  on  adipose  tissue,  and  in  the  form  of 
venison  graced  the  high  table  at  the  succeeding  "  Gaudy." 

As  the  book  progressed  his  spirits  rose  proportionately. 

"  I  have  left  off  sugar,  which  I  believe  to  be  poison,"  he 
writes;  "and,  do  you  know,  I  relish  everything  I  eat  since 
I  left  it  off.  Is  not  that  curious  ?  This  morning  I  made 
the  novel  reflection  that  bread-and-butter  is  nice.  Re- 
call to  your  mind  my  tirades  against  that  innocent  combi- 
nation ! 

"  I  am  not  at  all  in  bad  spirits  now,  thank  God  ! 

"  I  already  possessed  one  of  the  books  Gibson  (the  min- 
ister of  Kirkhope)  was  good  enough  to  recommend.  I  have 
obtained  the  others,  and  four  more  in  Nisbett's  list;  but 
Gibson,  as  might  be  expected,  had  recommended  the  best 
ones. 

"Simultaneously  arrived  yesterday  a  letter  from  my 
agent  Cornwallis,  saying  that  Harper  positively  declined 
my  terms,  and  a  line  from  Harper  virtually  accepting  said 
terms. 


312  Memoir  of  Charles  Beade. 

"  Corny  wanted  the  story  for  some  mad  periodical  ven- 
ture on  whieh  he  is  going  to  enter — in  full  civil  tear.  Oh, 
world,  world  ! 

"This  reminds  me  of  the  illustrious  chairman's  witti- 
cism, Tom  Taylor,  at  a  dramatic  and  equestrian  dinner. 
*  The  society  does  not  propose  to  employ  aw  agent.  The 
reason,  as  far  as  I  can  understand,  is  an  etymological  one. 
Agent  is  derived  from  a  Latin  word  "  agere^''  "  to  do,"  and 
agents  have  always  been  just  to  their  derivation  by  doing 
their  principals.' 

"  Luckily,  by  one  of  those  gusts  of  caution  which  you 
have  observed,  I  had  already  told  Corny  I  should  not  re- 
ceive Harper's  answer  through  him." 

Again : 

"  I  have  shaken  off  much  of  my  lethargy  since  I  finished 
Dickson's  works;  and  I  believe  his  detestable,  rambling 
way  of  writing,  and  eternal  repetition,  caused  my  woe. 

"  I  am  now  working  on  Jeaffreson's  book,  who  is  also  a 
rambling,  disconnected  creature,  but  not  so  bad  as  Dick- 
son. 

"Yesterday  a  bailiff  got  into  an  undergraduate's  room 
with  an  execution,  and  there  remained.  The  undergrad- 
uates put  their  heads  together,  and  finding  it  would  be 
dangerous  to  use  violence,  adopted  the  following  means: 
They  shoved  hot  shovels  sprinkled  with  cayenne  in  at  the 
window,  and  sprinkled  assafcetida.  But  the  grand  card 
was  sulphuretted  hydrogen  gas,  which,  by  some  means 
unknown  to  me,  they  liberated  from  its  sulphate,  and  blew 
through  the  letter-box. 

"In  a  word,  they  stunk  him  out;  and  I  need  scarcely 
say  they  kept  him  out  as  soon  as  he  emerged  for  vital  air. 

"  We  live  in  an  age  in  which  science  is  diffused,  and 
made  useful  as  well  as  exalting." 


''Hard  Cash:'  313 

There  is  a  fine  flavor  of  Goldwin  Smith's  green  coat 
about  this,  as  also  the  next : 

"  I  heard  some  crackers,  and  looking  out  of  my  window 
saw  the  Tower  with  two  long  lines  of  bright  red  running 
up  it  from  bottom  to  top.  Then  looking  farther  to  the 
right,  I  saw  in  the  chorister's  playground  two  enormous 
bonfires.     So  I  put  on  my  cap,  and  went  there. 

"  The  flame  rose  thirty  feet,  and  all  the  elm-trees  in  the 
neighborhood  a  bright  yellow.  I  am  now  come  in,  stink- 
ing of  naphtha — some  young  gentleman  having,  doubtless, 
thought  it  a  fair  exercise  of  juvenile  skill  to  level  a  fire- 
ball at  Dr.  Reade. 

"  I  approve  at  bottom,  but  stink  all  the  same." 

In  the  meanwhile  "  Hard  Cash  "  was  running  its  course 
through  Charles  Dickens's  admirable  magazine;  but  in- 
credible though  the  fact  seems  to  us  at  this  date,  it  does 
not  appear  to  have  been  cordially  welcomed  by  its  readers. 
The  devotees  of  Dickens  may  have  resented  the  substitu- 
tion of  another  author  for  their  incomparable  favorite;  yet 
in  the  English  language  there  exist  few,  if  any,  works  of 
fiction  more  exciting  than  "  Hard  Cash."  True,  it  trenched 
on  ground  already  occupied  by  "  Valentine  Vox,"  yet  in 
a  totally  different  vein,  while  the  sea  scenes  were  unique. 
The  author  was  able  to  refer  both  to  a  brother  who  had 
been  a  sailor,  and  to  a  nephew  in  the  Royal  Navy.  He  him- 
self had  experienced  the  dangers  of  the  deep,  and  the  qual- 
ity of  those  who  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  during  his 
spell  of  herring-fishing;  and  if  mal  de  mer  kept  him  ashore, 
and  deprived  him  of  the  pleasure  a  trip  to  America  would 
have  afforded  him,  he  loved  the  salt  truly.  That  the  book 
should  have  disappointed  Dickens  in  any  sense  is  unac- 
countable, yet  so  it  was. 

The  following  letter  tells  the  tale,  gracefully: 
14 


314  Memoir  of  Charles  Heade. 

"  I  should  have  been  glad  to  give  you  another  fortnight 
at  Kirkhope,"  he  writes  to  Mrs.  Seymour,  from  Bolton 
Row;  "and  I  was  rather  in  hopes  the  minister's  visit 
might  have  been  later.  However,  I  shall  be  very  glad 
to  see  you  both  on  the  last  day,  or  last  but  one,  of  Sep- 
tember. 

"  I  am  going  to  Ipsden,  but  not  for  long.  I  think  I  shall 
postpone  my  visit  to  the  Pearsons. 

"Wills  called  the  other  day,  and  reassured  me  with 
*  Hard  Cash.'  They  would  not  care  if  it  ran  fifty  numbers; 
but  they  want  to  end  their  tenth  volume  with  the  conclu- 
sion either  of  '  Hard  Cash '  or  of  its  successor.  Peevish 
nonsense!  The  story  has  done  them  no  good,  in  fact  they 
print  three  thousand  copies  less  than  at  the  outset.  But 
they  seem  to  bear  it  very  well,  and  ascribe  the  decline  to 
other  causes.  Wills  is  sure  it  will  be  a  great  hit  as  a  book, 
and  Dickens  swears  by  it.  So  now  you  have  both  sides  of 
the  matter." 

The  work,  as  is  stated  boldly  in  the  preface  to  Messrs. 
Chatto's  excellent  edition,  stung  the  profession  to  the 
quick.  Its  author  was  handled  insultingly  by  certain  pro- 
testing doctors,  notably  a  Dr.  Bushnan,  physician  to  a 
private  lunatic  asylum  in  Wiltshire.  This  was,  as  it  proved, 
a  blunder.  Charles  Reade,  following  the  old  canon  of 
Aristotle,  had  taken  facts  for  his  starting-point,  and  was 
armed  with  them  cap  dpie.  As  for  the  redoubtable  Bush- 
nan — an  Irishman  probably,  if  one  may  judge  by  his  name 
—  he  was  confuted  by  a  singular  argumentum  ad  hominem, 
being  turned  out  of  his  own,  as  he  stated,  faultless  asylum, 
owing  to  circumstances  which  confirmed  all  that  Charles 
Reade  had  alleged.  As  that  earnest  assailant  of  cruelty 
and  injury  urged  to  The  Saturday  Jieview,  a  man  must 
be  six  times  a  greater  writer  than  ever  lived,  ere  he  could 


'■''Hard  CasliP  315 

exaggerate  suicide,  despair,  and  the  horrors  that  drove 
young  and  old  to  them,  or — write  a  libel  on  hell. 

It  was  during  the  progress  of  "  Hard  Cash  "  that  Mrs. 
Reade  breathed  her  last.  She  was  en  route  to  her  dear 
old  home  at  Ipsden,  where  then  resided,  as  tenant  of  his 
elder  brother,  her  dutiful  son  Edward,  and  was  compelled 
to  halt  at  Reading.  Son  Charles  was  summoned  to  her 
bedside,  but  arrived  too  late.  This  is  his  missive  to  Mrs. 
Seymour,  who  seems  to  have  started  the  same  morning  for 
Kirkhope : 

"  I  went  down  to  Reading  by  the  twelve  o'clock  train, 
being  convinced  by  a  sadness  that  came  over  me  last  night, 
and  which  you  may  have  observed,  that  all  was  over. 

"  It  was  so. 

"  My  dear  mother  departed  this  life  at  twelve  last  night, 
after  some  hours  of  complete  unconsciousness.  Dr.  Wood- 
house  had  his  hand  on  her  pulse. 

"She  suffered  from  oppressed  breathing  early  in  the 
day,  but  this  had  ceased.  And,  at  the  last,  she  did  not 
die,  but  merely  ceased  to  live.  She  drew  her  last  breath 
just  as  she  drew  the  one  before  it,  and  my  sister  could  see 
no  change  in  her  dear  face  when  she  was  gone. 

"  Such  was  the  peaceful  close  of  a  good  life,  that  had  in 
very  truth  become  a  burden.  The  loss  of  her  mind  in  so 
great  a  degree,  and  the  fear  of  complete  imbecility,  do 
much  to  reconcile  me  to  the  inevitable  separation.  Still, 
it  must  he  felt. 

"  What  years  and  what  memories  rise  before  me  I  I 
send  off  this  hasty  line." 

It  was  felt  and  at  the  moment  of  writing,  for  the  letter 
from  end  to  end  is  blotted  with  tears. 

The  little  lady,  who  came  from  the  society  of  royalty 
as  a  bride  to  grace  a  humble  home  at  Ipsden  in  1790,  rests 


316  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

by  the  side  of  her  noble  husband  in  the  old  churchyard. 
It  was  more  like  a  triumph  than  a  funeral.  The  aged  poor 
whom  her  bounty  had  fed,  the  children  grown  to  maturity 
whom  she  had  taught,  thronged  the  bier;  and  it  was  re- 
marked that,  just  as  at  the  obsequies  of  another  in  Willes- 
den  churchyard  some  eighteen  years  later,  Charles  Reade 
seemed  to  stagger  under  the  weight  of  grief. 

He  kept  his  mother's  letters  under  the  title  ^^  ReliquicB 
Sacrce,''^  and  wrote  upon  them  as  an  epitaph,  "  Blessed  be 
her  memory." 

Is  it  paradoxical  to  suggest  that,  in  the  mind  that  could 
thus  to  the  last  retain  a  vivid  sentiment  of  adoration  for 
a  good  mother,  there  must  have  existed  a  well-spring  of 
good? 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  DKAMA   "  SEBA  ITUNQUAM." 

The  little  spec,  promised  to  Mrs.  Seymour,  on  the  conclu- 
sion, if  successful,  of  "  Hard  Cash,"  remained  in  abeyance 
for  some  time.  A  friendly  critic  once  styled  the  stage 
Charles  Reade's  will-o'-the-wisp.  That  in  a  pecuniary 
sense  was  true,  and  when  his  eulogist  in  Temple  Bar 
sneered  at  a  venerable  Presbyterian  divine  for  not  declin- 
ing a  small  legacy,  because,  forsooth,  the  money  wherewith 
that  bequest  would  be  paid  was  "  earned  "  {sic)  by  a  play- 
wright, he  omitted,  with  singular  inconsequence,  to  strike 
a  debtor  and  creditor  account  between  Charles  Reade  and 
the  theatre.  The  novelist  made  money,  handsome  sums 
at  times,  by  his  novels;  the  dramatist  was  singularly  un- 
fortunate in  nearly  all  his  theatrical  speculations.  In 
short,  so  far  from  the  theatre  having  contributed  to  his 
fortune,  it  actually  diminished  it.  His  Presbyterian  friend 
and  mentor  did  not  handle  theatrical  gold,  for  there  was 
none  to  handle. 

We  will  at  once,  however,  place  our  author's  connec- 
tion with  the  drama  on  its  real  basis.  It  was  his  ambition. 
He  held  the  drama  to  be  the  apex  of  all  art,  the  superior 
of  poetry,  painting,  sculpture,  music,  architecture.  To 
musical  composers  he  could  be  unjust;  and  we  have  seen 
him  throw  down  a  volume  of  poems  with  the  sarcastic 
comment,  "  Beyond  my  comprehension."  As  we  have  al- 
ready said,  a  novel  obtained  value  in  his  eyes  in  proper- 


318  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

tion  to  its  dramatic  quality.  Such  being  the  bent  of  his 
mind,  it  seemed  to  resolve  in  a  circle  round  the  stage.  If 
he  wrote  a  successful  novel,  his  first  thought  was,  how 
would  it  play  ?  He  craved  to  see  his  characters  at  work, 
to  witness  his  situations;  and  to  hear  the  thud  of  the  gal- 
lery's boots,  the  roar  of  its  many-tongued  throat,  the  ap- 
plause of  its  horny  hands.  His  one  desire  was  to  make 
mankind  feel,  and  be  conscious  of  doing  so.  That  was 
why  he  could  tolerate  criticism  with  less  equanimity  than 
a  schoolboy  the  cane.  The  critics  were  too  pachyderma- 
tous, too  case-hardened  for  feeling;  and,  worse  still,  they 
spoke  in  accents  of  ice  on  behalf  of  a  public  he  had 
warmed  to  enthusiasm. 

At  last,  after  a  lapse  of  many  years,  the  course  of  events 
brought  him  back  to  the  theatre  he  loved  so  ecstatically. 
He  shall  tell  how  it  all  came  about  in  his  own  language. 
The  following  fragment  is  entitled,  with  somewhat  of  the 
acerbity  of  the  spoiled  child — 

"READE'S   LUCK. 

"  Autobiography  is  a  vile,  egotistical  thing.  It  always 
must  be.  But  there  is  a  set-off:  you  learn  something  real 
about  the  man,  and  that  is  what  you  will  never  learn  from 
anybody  else. 

"  Let  this,  and  my  recent  wrongs,  be  my  excuse  for 
troubling  you  with  one  chapter  of  my  public  life.  I  can- 
not divest  such  a  thing  of  egotism,  any  more  than  I  can 
wash  the  spots  out  of  a  leopard;  but  I  promise  it  shall 
not  be  unmixed  egotism,  but  shall  lead  to  general  conclu- 
sions of  public  utility. 

"  In  that  reservoir  of  delights,  the  *  Arabian  Nights,' 
nothing  is  more  charming  than  the  story  of  '  Sindbad  the 
Sailor,'  and  the  art  with  which  it  is  introduced:  a  poor. 


The  Drama  '''-Sera  Nunquam^''  319 

half-starved  fellow,  misfortune's  butt,  comes  upon  a  gay 
company  feasting  luxuriously;  at  the  head  of  the  table 
sits  a  white-headed  senior,  the  host;  homage  surrounds 
him;  slaves  watch  his  hand;  friends  hang  upon  his  words; 
he  is  a  type  of  ease,  luxury,  wealth,  respectability.  The 
worn  and  hungry  traveller  stands  apart  and  glares  upon 
banquet  and  host,  and  his  heart  sinks  lower  than  ever. 
Contrasting  his  hard  lot  with  the  luxury  before  him,  he 
murmurs  at  the  inequality  of  things,  and  the  injustice  of 
fortune. 

"  The  next  moment  he  would  gladly  recall  his  words; 
for  a  servant  comes  and  tells  him  the  master  of  the  feast 
would  speak  to  him;  he  goes  trembling,  and  expecting 
bastinado. 

"  *  Sit  down  by  me,'  says  the  host,  and  orders  his  plate 
to  be  heaped. 

"  When  he  has  eaten  his  fill,  the  venerable  senior  says, 
quietly, '  I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  my  life.' 

"  Then  the  lucky  man  tells  the  unlucky  one  such  a  tale 
of  adventures,  perils,  wounds,  hardships,  sufferings,  and 
despair,  as  makes  the  unlucky  man  think  light  of  his  own 
griefs.  Through  all  these  dangers  and  horrors  had  Sind- 
bad  the  persevering  passed,  ere  he  got  to  be  Sindbad  the 
seeming  lucky. 

"  Now  writers  are  not  Sindbads,  nor  lead  adventurous 
lives;  yet  at  the  bottom  of  things,  dissimilar  on  the  sur- 
face, lies  often  a  point  of  similitude.  And  so  when  I  read, 
or  hear  people  talk  of  one  Charles  Reade's  universal  suc- 
cess, of  his  flashy  but  popular  style,  of  his  ease  and  afflu- 
ence, I  wear  a  sickly  smile,  and  think  sometimes  of  *  Sind- 
bad the  Sailor,'  not  lucky,  but  very  unlucky  and  persever- 
ing— for,  by  Heaven,  it  has  never  been  smooth  sailing  with 
me! 


320  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

"In  the  year  1835  I  began  to  make  notes  with  a  view 
to  writing  fiction,  but,  fixing  my  mind  on  its  masterpieces 
in  all  languages  and  all  recorded  times,  I  thought  so  highly 
of  that  great  and  difficult  art  that  for  fourteen  years  I 
never  ventured  to  offer  my  crude  sketches  to  the  public. 

"  I  began  at  last,  and  wrote  several  dramas,  not  one  of 
which  any  manager  would  read;  but  theatrical  England 
at  this  time  was  a  mere  province  of  France.  Observing 
which,  I  crept  into  the  theatre  at  last  with  a  French 
translation. 

"  From  that  I  went  to  better  things,  and  wi'ote  several 
plays  alone,  and  in  conjunction  with  my  friend  Mr.  T. 
Taylor;  but  though  my  talent,  whatever  it  may  be,  is 
rather  for  the  drama  than  the  novel,  I  was,  after  a  hard 
fight,  literally  driven  into  the  novel  by  bad  laws  and  cor- 
rupt practices. 

"  Had  laws. — The  international  copyright  law  of  1852 
was  intended  to  give  a  French  dramatist  the  sole  right  to 
translate  and  play  his  play  in  England  for  five  years,  and 
so  encourage  home  invention  by  restraining  the  former 
theft.  But  while  the  act  was  being  drawn,  an  English 
playwright  or  two,  who  had  all  their  lives  stolen  French 
ideas,  and  held  it  a  point  of  honor  to  die  as  they  had 
lived,  crawled  up  the  back  stairs  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons and  earwigged  the  late  Lord  Palraerston.  He,  good 
man,  meant  no  worse,  and  saw  no  deeper,  than  this:  'Let 
us  make  the  best  shopkeeper's  bargain  we  can  for  Eng- 
land.' But  the  result  was  that  the  English  Sovereign, 
the  English  Peers,  and  the  English  Commons  took  their 
instructions  from  a  handful  of  impenitent  thieves,  and  dis- 
graced themselves  and  the  nation.  They  treacherously 
conveyed  into  this  otherwise  noble  statute  a  perfidious 
clause,  allowing  '  fair  adaptations  and  imitations '  of  every 


The  Drama  '''■Sera  NunquamP  321 

foreign  drama  to  be  played  in  England,  in  defiance  of  the 
foreign  inventor. 

"  This  viper  in  the  basket  made  the  protecting  clauses 
waste  paper,  and  perpetuated  dramatic  piracy  from  for- 
eigners in  its  old,  convenient,  and  habitual  form  of  color- 
able piracy. 

"After  this  don't  laugh  at  the  words  Perfide  Albion^ 
for  these  words  are  true,  by  God  ! 

"  Well,  this  wicked  and  perfidious  law  enabled  a  por- 
tion of  the  anonymous  press  to  monopolize  the  theatres, 
or  nearly.  No  fool  can  invent  a  single  good  drama,  but 
any  fool  can  adapt  two  hundred  good  dramas  from  the 
French;  and  any  fool  can  write,  just  as  any  fool  could 
spit,  the  cant  and  twaddle,  and  impudence  and  ignorance 
that  some  folk  adorn  by  the  acre  under  the  blasphemous 
title  of  '  dramatic  criticism.' 

"So  when  newspapers  increased  in  number  and  size, 
there  arose  a  ^camaraderie^  or  compact  band  of  play- 
wright critics,  writers  calamitous  to  the  drama,  and  fatal, 
above  all,  to  the  dramatic  inventor.  This  gang  worked 
in  concert  as  they  work  to  this  day;  they  toadied  actors, 
however  wretched;  they  praised  every  piece  which  was 
written  by  one  of  their  gang;  they  flew  like  hornets  at 
every  outsider  who  did  not  square  them  with  champagne 
suppers,  or  other  douceurs,  pecuniary  bribe  included;  and 
then,  as  now,  they  sometimes  levied  blackmail  on  a  man- 
ager by  a  dodge  I  shall  expose  by  and  by. 

"  The  managers  of  theatres,  most  of  them  actors,  and 
extremely  sensitive  to  public  praise  or  censure,  truckled 
to  these  small  fry  invested  with  large  powers  by  reckless 
journals,  and  would  rather  take  a  French  piece,  sure  to 
be  praised  by  this  little  Trades'  Union,  than  an  English 
piece,  sure  to  be  censured  by  them. 
14* 


322  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

"I  struggled  against  this  double  sliuffle  for  about  four 
years,  and  then  I  gave  it  up  in  despair,  and  took  to  novclv 
writing,  against  the  grain,  and  left  the  stage  for  years. 

"During  my  period  of  enforced  exile  from  the  stage  I 
suffered  intellectual  hell.  I  used  to  go  to  the  theatres 
and  see  that  one  piece  of  unnatural  trash  after  another 
could  get  a  hearing,  yet  the  market  was  hermetically  sealed 
to  me.  It  is  usual,  under  these  circumstances,  for  the  dis- 
appointed man  to  turn  anonymous  writer,  call  himself  a 
critic,  or  judge,  and,  in  that  sacred  character,  revenge  him- 
self on  the  successful.  Unfortunately,  my  principles  and 
my  reverence  for  that  great,  holy,  incorruptible  science, 
criticism,  did  not  permit  me  this  Christian  solace;  so  I 
suffered  in  silence,  and  with  a  fortitude  which  the  writers 
who  babble  about  my  irritability  have  shown  they  can- 
not imitate  in  a  far  milder  case. 

"In  1865  I  tried  the  London  stage  again  under  other 
circumstances,  to  explain  which  I  must  go  back  a  little. 

"At  Christmas,  1852,  Drury  Lane  was  in  the  hands  of 
a  gentleman  with  great  courage  and  small  capital.  He 
invested  his  all  in  the  pantomime  ;  and  the  pantomime 
failed  so  utterly  that  after  one  week  they  took  it  off,  and 
pitchforked  on  to  the  stage  a  drama  called  *  Gold,'  which 
I  had  flung  together  in  the  same  hasty  way.  This  drama, 
though  loosely  constructed,  was  English,  and  hit  the  time. 
Not  being  stolen  from  the  French  by  any  member  of  the 
trades'  union  of  playwright  critics,  it  was  much  dispraised 
in  the  papers,  and  crowded  the  theatre,  and  saved  the 
manager. 

"  Afterwards,  when  the  playwright  critics  drove  me  out 
of  the  theatre,  I  was  obliged  to  run  cunning,  and  turned 
many  of  my  suppressed  plays  into  stories.  I  dealt  so 
with  'Gold':  I  added  a  new  vein  of  incidents  taken  from 


Tlie  Drama  ^^  Sera  Nunquam.^''  323 

prison  life,  and  so  turned  the  drama  *  Gold  '  into  the  novel 
— '  It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend.' 

"But  lo !  the  novel  being  written  by  a  dramatist,  nat- 
urally presented  fresh  dramatic  features,  and  tempted  me 
to  reconstruct  a  more  effective  drama.  I  offered  it  to  one  or 
two  managers.  They  declined,  and  gave  their  reasons — 
if  I  may  venture  to  apply  that  term  to  the  logic  of  gorillas. 

"Presently  piratical  scribblers  got  hold  of  the  subject, 
and  gorilla  logic  melted  away  directly  in  the  sunshine  of 
theft.  Managers,  both  in  town  and  country,  were  ready 
to  treat  for  the  rejected  subject  the  moment  it  was  of- 
fered them,  not  by  the  inventor  and  the  writer,  but  by 
scribblers  and  pirates.  Several  piratical  versions  were 
played,  in  town  and  country,  with,  a  success  unparalleled 
in  those  days.  Saloons  rose  into  theatres  by  my  brains, 
stolen.  Managers  made  at  least  seventy  thousand  pounds 
out  of  my  brains,  stolen;  but  not  one  would  pay  the  in- 
ventor a  shilling,  nor  give  his  piece  a  hearing. 

"  At  last  this  impatient  Charles  Reade,  like  his  prede- 
cessor in  impatience.  Job,  lost  impatience,  and  went  to 
law  with  the  thieves  and  the  dealers  in  stolen  goods. 

"It  was  a  long  and  hard  fight  that  would  have  worn 
out  a  poet  or  two  ;  but  after  three  suits  in  the  Common 
Pleas,  and  three  injunctions  in  Equity,  I  crushed  the 
thieves,  and  recovered  my  property. 

"  Then  I  tried  the  London  managers  of  the  day  again. 
I  said,  '  My  amiable,  though  too  larcenous  friends,  here  is 
an  approved  subject,  which  you  can  no  longer  steal ;  but 
that  is  your  misfortune,  not  your  fault:  why  not  make 
the  best  of  a  bad  job,  and  put  a  few  thousand  pounds  into 
your  pockets  by  dealing  with  the  inventor?' 

"  No ;  not  one  would  deal  with  a  writer  for  his  own 
brains. 


324  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

"Hares  run  through  the  woods  in  tracks;  men  run 
through  life  in  grooves ;  and  these  had  a  fixed  habit  of 
dealing  with  scribblers  and  thieves  for  the  inventor's 
brains ;  and  they  could  not  get  out  of  that  groove  at  any 
price. 

"  Seven  mortal  years  did  I  offer  my  new  popular  drama, 
*It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend,'  to  these  bigots  in  vain. 

"  Seven  mortal  years  did  I  see  false,  un-English,  inhu- 
man trash  played  at  the  very  theatres  which  refused  me 
a  hearing. 

"  At  last  a  lady  interfered,  read  my  drama,  and  advised 
Mr.  George  Vining  to  entertain  it  at  the  Princess'.  He 
did  so,  and  the  drama  was  brought  out  with  great  expec- 
tation on  the  fourth  day  of  October,  1865. 

"The  playwright  critics  were  there  in  full  force,  and 
several  of  them  sat  together  in  the  stalls,  as  usual.  But 
the  circumstances  under  which  the  play  was  played  were 
of  a  nature  to  disarm  hostility.  I  had  not  troubled  the 
theatre  for  ten  years ;  and  even  now  I  was  only  produc- 
ing, for  my  own  benefit,  a  play  that  had  been  fully  dis- 
cussed, and  approved,  when  played  for  the  benefit  of  mis- 
appropriators. 

"  It  would  be  hard  to  find,  even  amongst  the  lowest  of 
mankind,  a  person  who  could  not  feel  some  little  compas- 
sion for  an  inventor  that  had  been  shouldered  off  the  stage 
for  years  by  means  of  his  own  brains — stolen,  and  who 
now  merely  asked  a  percentage  on  his  brains,  and  the 
same  justice  which  had  always  been  accorded  to  those 
brains,  when  sold  for  their  own  benefit,  by  dunces  and 
thieves. 

"But,  if  you  want  a  grain  of  humanity,  or  honor,  or 
justice,  or  manly  feeling  of  any  kind,  don't  you  go  to  a 
trades'  union ;   for  you  won't  find  it  there.     The  play- 


The  Drama  '•''Sera  Nunquam^''  325 

wriglit  critics  concerted  the  destruction  of  the  drama  on  the 
first  night.  They  were  seen  to  Qg^  on  Mr.  Tomlins,  the 
critic  of  The  Morning  Advertiser,  to  howl  down  the  prison 
scenes  by  brute  clamor.  Tomlins,  being  drunk,  'his  cus- 
tom ever  in  the  afternoon,'  lent  himself  to  this  with  in- 
ebriate zeal,  and  got  up  a  disturbance,  which  with  a  feeble 
manager  would  infallibly  have  ended  in  the  curtain  being 
let  down  and  the  play  withdrawn  forever.  But,  for  once, 
the  clique  ran  their  heads  against  a  man.  George  Vining 
defied  the  cabal  on  the  stage ;  and,  at  last,  some  fellows 
in  the  gallery,  shaking  off  their  amazement  at  the  miscon- 
duct below,  called  down,  '  Turn  the  blackguards  out.' 
Now  when  the  dishonest  blackguards  in  the  stalls  found 
the  honest  blackguards  in  the  gallery  had  spotted  them, 
they  shut  up,  and  prepared  their  articles  for  next  morning 
in  dead  silence. 

"  Next  day,  of  course,  they  wrote  the  piece  down  unani- 
mously. But  they  had  overrated  their  j)ower.  The  pub- 
lic got  scent  of  the  swindle,  rushed  to  the  theatre,  and 
carried  the  drama  triumphantly  for  148  nights.  The 
profits  were  about  £8000,  of  which  £2000  came  to  me 
on  shares.  The  drama  has  outlived  all  the  plays  that 
were  lauded  to  the  skies  that  year  by  the  venal  clique. 
It  was  played  in  six  houses  this  year,  1873. 

"Finding  themselves  sat  upon,  the  playwright  critics 
went  and  ate  dirty  pudding  ;  they  had  been  talking  about 
liberty,  and  trying  hard  and  publicly  to  get  rid  of  the  ex- 
aminer of  plays.  Yet  they  now  went  to  this  functionary, 
cap  in  hand,  and  humbly  besought  him  to  come  to  their 
assistance,  and  stop  Mr.  Reade's  play,  since  the  'Press' 
was  powerless.  This  fractional  clique  has  quite  a  mania 
for  calling  itself  the  *  Press.'  The  Licenser  received  them 
politely,  but  with  a  covert  sneer ;  expressed  a  respect  for 


826  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

liberty,  and  objected  to  interfere  with  it  except  in  ques- 
tions of  public  morality." 

To  be  perfectly  frank,  admitting  that  the  stalls  were  by 
no  means  crowded  with  the  author's  friends,  the  house  it- 
self, as  a  whole,  was  hardly  favorable  to  the  piled  agony 
of  the  prison  scene.  There  are  facts  which,  though  highly 
dramatic,  had  better  be  left  to  the  imagination.  The  au- 
thor had  overdone  his  effect ;  he  had  rendered  tragedy 
itself  repulsive,  if  not  ridiculous,  and  when  in  his  cooler 
moments  he  consented  to  tone  down  barbarity,  his  play 
did  not  lose  in  real  strength.*  It  has  been  asserted  as  in- 
controvertible that  "  It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend  "  failed 
to  win  enthusiasm  at  the  outset.     This  Charles  Reade's 

*  Before  the  play  was  produced  Charles  Readc  sent  the  MS.  to  his  warm 
friend,  Dion  Boucicault,  at  Dublin — for  criticism.  The  reply  of  the  latter 
was  80  severe  that  it  was  deemed  by  its  recipient  worth  a  niche  in  his  huge 
letter-book ;  the  envelope  containing  it  bearing  the  sarcastic  inscription, 
"  Boucicault  on  MS.  drama, '  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend.'  Advises  me  to  cut 
out  Jew  and  Jacky.  Aha!  old  Fox,  they  will  outlive  thee  and  me!" 
This  is  the  missive  in  question : 

DcBMN,  3  Dec. 

"  My  dear  Reade, — I  have  read  your  drama, '  N.  T.  L.  T.  M.'  There  is 
in  it  a  very  effective  piece,  but,  like  the  nut  within  both  husk  and  shell,  it 
wants  freedom. 

"  1st.  It  will  act  five  hours  as  it  stands. 

"  2d.  There  are  scenes  which  injure  dramatically  others  which  follow. 

"  3d.  There  are  two  characters  you  are  fond  of  (I  suppose),  but  can 
never  be  played.     I  mean  Jacky  and  the  Jew. 

"  4th.  The  dialogue  wants  weeding.  It  is  more  in  weight  than  actors— 
as  they  breed  them  now — can  carry. 

"  Total.  If  you  want  to  make  a  success  with  this  drama,  you  must  con- 
sent to  a  depleting  process — to  which  Shylock's  single  lb.  of  flesh  must  be 
a  mild  transaction. 

"  Have  you  the  courage  to  undergo  the  operation  ?  Fm  afraid  you  have 
not  Ever  yours,  Dion  Boucicault." 


The  Drama  ''''Sera  Nunquam^  327 

arithmetic  alone  goes  far  towards  disproving.  "  Sera  Nun- 
quatn  "  not  only  commanded  success,  but  at  once  entered 
into  the  programme  of  stock  companies  ;  and  to  this  hour 
if  a  manager,  be  he  London  or  provincial,  colonial  or 
American,  happens  to  be  in  difficulties,  he  falls  back  on 
this  drama  as  a  sure  and  certain  draw.  It  became,  more- 
over, from  the  date  of  its  initial  performance  at  the  Prin- 
cess' Theatre,  a  second  fellowship  to  its  author,  a  steady 
source  of  income.  Rarely  did  a  week  pass  without  a  check, 
larger  or  less,  arriving  on  account  of  the  representations 
of  this  play.  Now  it  was  from  Manchester,  Liverpool, 
Glasgow,  or  Leeds ;  now  from  Mr.  Dampier  at  Melbourne, 
or  Wagga-wagga ;  now  from  the  Cape,  from  Canada,  from 
India. 

It  won  its  way,  nevertheless,  to  universal  favor  by  stages, 
if  rapid  ones.  Two  provincial  revivals  deserve  especial 
mention — at  Birmingham  and  at  Liverpool. 

The  great  metropolis  of  the  Midlands  welcomed  it  with 
a  sympathy  most  creditable  to  its  reputation  for  progress 
and  humanity.  But  for  the  iron  men  of  that  iron  city  the 
brutal  Austin  might  have  done  myriads  to  death  within 
their  jail.  It  was  Birmingham,  that  Birmingham  whose 
religious  prophet  was  the  noble  Angel  James,  and  whose 
political  mouth-piece  was  equally  honest  John  Bright, 
which  raised  the  cry.  And  when  Birmingham  utters,  the 
world  must  perforce  listen. 

"  Painful  as  the  incidents,  delineated  with  so  much  force, 
skill,  pathos,  and  dramatic  power,  are,"  wrote  an  able  pub- 
licist to  a  Birmingham  paper,  "  they  are  by  no  means  equal 
to  the  stern  facts  upon  which  the  dramatist  has  based  his 
tragic  scenes.  The  dismal  history  was  described  on  our 
local  record,  and  is  probably  well-nigh  forgotten  by  those 
who  were  living  at  that  time.  ... 


S28  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

"On  the  29th  October,  1849,  the  jail  (of  Birmingham) 
was  opened,  Captain  Mackonochie  being  appointed  gov- 
ernor. He  had  been  superintendent  at  Norfolk  Island, 
and  introduced  *  the  mark  system,'  under  which  no  pris- 
oner was  entitled  to  any  other  food  than  bread  and  water, 
but  might  earn  an  improved  dietary,  together  with  other 
indulgences  and  rewards,  in  proportion  to  the  numbered 
marks  he  should  obtain.  This  system  the  captain  desired 
to  introduce  into  Birmingham  jail.  .  .  . 

"  The  beneficial  system  was  not  allowed  to  continue  in 
operation  for  any  length  of  time.  In  March,  1850,  the 
oflice  of  principal  warder  became  vacant,  and  Lieutenant 
Austin  was  appointed.  From  the  day  Austin  entered  he 
seems  to  have  aimed  at  undermining  the  authority  of  the 
governor.  Quarrels  arose.  Austin  jesuitically  sent  in 
his  resignation.  It  was  not  accepted,  and  shortly  after 
Captain  M.  was  deprived  of  his  appointment,  .  .  .  and 
on  October  21,  1851,  Austin  was  appointed  governor. 
The  humane  system  and  the  generally  mild  treatment  to 
which  prisoners  had  been  subjected  were  superseded  by 
others  of  harshness  and  cruelty.  Between  November, '51, 
and  April,  '53,  there  were  no  less  than  twelve  attempts  at 
suicide,  and  three  in  which  the  unfortunate  prisoners  suc- 
ceeded in  destroying  their  lives.  A  blue  book  is  full  of 
harrowing  details,  such  as  make  one  shudder.  Many  might 
be  cited,  but  I  shall  "be  able  only  to  find  room  for  one. 
This  is  that  of  the  boy  Andrews,  which  serves  as  the 
model  of  'Josephs,'  the  main  difference  being  that  An- 
drews was  driven  to  suicide,  while  in  the  drama  the  boy 
Josephs  dies  in  the  arms  of  the  chaplain.  Edward  An- 
drews, a  boy  of  fifteen  years  of  age,  was  committed,  March 
28, 1853,  for  stealing  four  pounds  of  beef,  for  three  months. 
The  chaplain  described  him  as  *  quiet,  mild,  docile ;'  the 


The  Drama  ^^Sera  NunquamP  329 

governor  said  he  was  of  a  *  sullen  and  dogged  disposition.' 
On  Marcli  30  he  was  put  to  work  the  crank ;  one  of  the 
witnesses  deposed  that,  *to  accomplish  the  10,000  revolu- 
tions necessary  for  a  day's  work,  a  boy  would  exert  force 
equal  to  one  fourth  of  an  ordinary  draught  horse.'  He 
failed  to  perform  his  task  on  the  30th  and  31st.  On  both 
these  days  he  was  fed  on  bread  and  water  only,  not  receiv- 
ing any  food  whatever  until  night!  'His  food  seldom  ex- 
ceeded bread  and  water,'  and  on  April  17  he  was  put  into 
the  punishment  jacket,  where  the  arras  were  crossed  on 
the  breast  and  tied  together,  motion  being  impossible.  In 
addition  to  the  jacket  a  stiff  leather  stock  was  fastened 
tightly  round  the  neck,  and  the  prisoner  was  strapped  in  a 
standing  position  to  the  walls  of  his  cell.  On  the  I9th  he 
was  again  strapped  for  four  hours ;  on  that  occasion  the 
chaplain  was  attracted  to  his  cell  by  shrieks  of  '  murder ;' 
on  going  there  he  found  the  poor  lad  suffering  great 
bodily  pain  in  his  arras,  chest,  and  neck,  crying  and  wail- 
ing most  piteously.  The  chaplain  found  that  the  stock 
was  fastened  so  tightly  that  he  could  not  insert  his  finger 
between  it  and  the  poor  boy's  neck.  On  the  2 2d  and 
24th  he  was  again  strapped.  On  this  occasion  a  bucket  of 
water  was  thrown  over  him,  and  he  was  seen  standing 
with  one  sock  and  one  bare  foot  on  the  wet  stone  floor  of 
his  cell.  On  April  26  and  27  he  was  deprived  of  his  bed 
from  5.30  p.m.  to  10  p.m.  On  the  evening  of  the  latter 
day,  as  the  watch  was  taking  the  bed  to  the  cell,  he  found 
him  hanging — dead." 

Austin  was  indicted  at  Warwick,  convicted,  and — such 
is  the  farce  of  English  justice — sentenced  to  three  months' 
imprisonment ! 

"If,"  concludes  the  writer,  "any  one  should  doubt  the 
abhorrence  of  Birmingham  people  to  such  horrible  inhu- 


880  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

manities,  let  him  witness  the  performance  of  the  drama, 
lie  will  then  know  by  the  uncontrollable  sobs  of  the  audi- 
ence at  the  simulated  sufferings  of  the  victims,  and  by  the 
murmurs  of  execration  with  which  the  representative  of 
the  wicked  governor  is  greeted,  how  utterly  Birmingham 
despises  wrong-doing  and  tyranny,  and  how  entirely  its  peo- 
ple compassionate  the  victims  of  cruelty  and  oppression." 

Liverpool  was,  perhaps,  less  profoundly  stirred  than  Bir- 
mingham, but  its  splendid  amphitheatre  was  packed  to  the 
ceiling.  The  press,  notwithstanding,  elected  to  pose  as 
censor.  The  Daily  Post,  for  instance,  considered  the  play 
"  burdened  with  a  didactic  purpose.  The  presentment  of 
mere  physical  pain  to  enforce  a  specific  doctrine,  whose 
soundness  is  to  be  determined  by  the  understanding,  is 
alike  false  in  art  and  false  in  logic.  A  clinical  lecture  may 
be  a  very  proper  means  of  combating  an  error  of  medical 
practice,  but  its  delivery  on  the  stage,  in  the  presence  of  a  pa- 
tient carefully  simulating  the  throes  of  tetanus,  would  right- 
ly be  esteemed  horrible  in  itself,  and  entirely  out  of  place." 

Suffice  it  that  if  that  was  the  bright  idea  of  Liverpud- 
lian hypercriticism,  it  failed  to  influence  Liverpool.* 

Did  space  permit,  we  should  desire  much  to  chronicle 
the  numerous  revivals  of  this  celebrated  drama  in  London 
and  the  provinces,  if,  indeed,  revival  be  not  a  misnomer 
for  that  which,  in  one  quarter  or  another,  is  perpetually 
running.     We  must  content  ourselves  with  calling  atten- 

*  Martin  Farquhar  Tupper — "  a  man,"  selon  Charles  Rcade,  "  unreason- 
ably pitched  into  " — wrote  thus :  "  I  desire  to  congratulate  you  heartily  on 
having  made  popular  so  good  and  true  a  refrain  as  '  It  is  Never  Too  Late 
to  Mend.'  Despair  of  good  is  the  great  and  evil  antagonist,  which,  so  long 
as  there  is  Life  and  Hope,  it  is  worth  any  MAN'S  while  to  try  and  conquer. 
And  you  possibly  may  have  done  more  good  by  your  acted  morals  at  the 
Priocess'  than  many  bishops  in  many  cathedrals.    Perge,  prosper." 


The  Drama  ^^  Sera  Nunquam^  53i 

tion  to  a  circumstance  in  connection  with  it  wliich  its  au- 
thor would  have  been  the  first  to  place  in  bold  relief.  We 
refer  to  the  splendid  support  accorded  the  dramatist  by  his 
leading  actors.  It  would  be  unfair  to  Charles  Reade  to 
affirm  that  Mr.  Henry  Neville  created  the  character  of 
Tom  Robinson.  He  did  none  the  less — all  that  a  consum- 
mate actor  could  do  for  a  consummate  author.  He  gave 
Tom  Robinson  flesh  and  blood,  soul  and  sinew ;  and  when, 
later  in  the  day,  Mr.  Charles  Warner  succeeded  to  his 
role,  he  too  brought  histrionic  qualities  which  entranced 
Charles  Reade.  "  The  dog  is  so  picturesque  !"  was  his 
terse  eulogium  of  the  other  Charles.*  Nor  must  we  omit 
Mr.  Calhaem,  who  seemed  to  have  adopted  as  his  ideal 
the  missing  link  of  the  nebulous  agnostics,  and  to  have 
called  into  existence  in  his  proper  person  that  impossible 
paradox,  the  fusion  of  parallel  species. 

It  is  strange  to  reflect  that  there  are  Warners  and  Ne- 
villes and  Calhaems  unborn ;  destined,  none  the  less,  to 
speak  the  words  that  Charles  Reade  thought  and  wrote, 
and  enact  the  scenes  he  stage-managed  with  such  rare 
skill.  The  curtain  will  not  fall  for  the  last  time  on  thrill- 
ing "Sera  Nunquam'*''  until  our  English  tongue  has  gone 
the  way  of  Sanscrit,  and  the  English  passion  for  righteous- 
ness has  been  merged  in  the  lubricity  of  the  wolf  and  the 
jackal.  And  then — if  ever  that  comes — the  planet,  like 
other  ephemeral  things,  will  no  longer  be  worth  preserving. 

♦  The  following  extract  from  the  author's  diary,  dated  January  18,  1879, 
exhibits  his  appreciation  of  Mr.  Charles  Warner :  "  Sinclair  (George  Field- 
ing) and  Rose  Leclercq  (Susan)  do  not  act  up  to  Warner  in  Act  I.  They 
let  the  play  drop  by  their  sluggishness  and  want  of  all  genuine  excitement 
in  these  particular  scenes.  But  of  course  they  appear  tamer  by  the  side 
of  the  exuberant  Warner.  Ilowcver,  when  a  leading  performer  sets  the 
tune  in  so  bright  a  key,  there  is  but  one  way — the  others  must  act  up  to 
him,  or  the  whole  thing  goes  to  pot,  and  the  audience  only  attends  when 
the  earnest  man  is  on." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THBEB  NOVELS  AND  THBEB  PLAYS. 

Charles  Reade's  least  flattering  censors,  while  gen- 
erally sparing  their  praise,  have  always  pointed  to  one 
among  his  works  as  being  in  every  respect  superior  to  the 
rest.  In  "  Peg  Woffington  "  he  was  accused  of  staginess; 
in ."  Christie  Johnstone,"  save  the  mark,  of  deficient  im- 
agination ;  in  "  It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend,"  and  "  Hard 
Cash,"  of  didactic  pedantry;  in  "White  Lies,"  of  plagia- 
rism. He  was  now  to  produce  a  novel  which  should  es- 
cape these  several  strictures,  yet  expose  him  to  assailants 
of  a  different  kidney  and  a  less  critical  mettle.  The 
book,  in  fact,  for  once  satisfied  the  most  exacting  among 
the  republic  of  literati,  while  it  converted  into  enemies 
a  section  of  his  warmest  admirers  outside  that  charmed 
circle. 

We  shall  perhaps  meet  the  equity  of  the  case  in  ventur- 
ing to  suggest,  that  if  only  the  honest  objectors  to  "  Grif- 
fith Gaunt"  on  either  side  the  Atlantic  could  have  realized 
its  true  purport  as  clearly  as  the  men  of  letters  gauged  its 
artistic  merit,  there  would  have  arisen  but  one  chorus,  and 
that  of  praise.  Enough  that  its  author,  placed  on  the  de- 
fensive, delivered  a  vehement  rejoinder  in  the  brochure 
entitled  "The  Prurient  Prude,"  which  forms  one  of  the 
more  amusing  items  of  "  Readiana."  Being,  as  he  believed 
himself  to  be,  free  in  foro  conscientice,  he  was  quite  ca- 
pable of  answering  his  detractors;  and  we  feel  ourselves  in 


Three  Novels  and  Three  Plays.  333 

consequence  totally  relieved  from  the  slightest  obligation 
of  constituting  ourselves  his  apologists.  He  has  spoken 
for  himself. 

At  the  same  time  it  is  but  just  to  his  memory,  and,  above 
all,  to  his  fair  fame,  to  place  on  record  what  evidence  we 
possess  on  his  side.  In  handling  a  problem  in  morals — 
the  motif  of  this  book — a  writer  lays  himself  inevitably 
open  to  the  charge  of  having  drawn  a  veil  which  ought 
never  to  be  lifted.  Such  would  be  the  impulsive,  impatient 
sentiment  of  many  good  men.  Yet  others,  and  minds  of 
a  more  philosophical  temperament,  would  naturally  view 
the  author  from  a  different  standpoint.  Among  such,  we 
may  mention,  with  the  especial  reverence  due  to  a  poet, 
Mr.  Edwin  Arnold,  C.S.I.,  who  wrote  thus  from  the  office 
of  The  Daily  Telegraph : 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Reade, — I  am  proud  to  be  summoned  by  you  to  stand 
forward  for  your  admirable  book — '  Griffith  Gaunt'  What  I  wrote — in 
the  notice  to  which  you  allude  so  kindly — is  what  I  think,  and  what  I  am 
ready  to  repeat  anywhere,  if  my  friends  here  don't  object  to  the  publica- 
tion of  my  name.  As  I  confess  to  my  printed  opinion,  you  can  subpoena 
me  in  spite  of  them,  however.  I  have  been  sickened  to  see  and  hear  the 
things  vented  against  your  noble  piece  of  work ;  I  found  in  it  what,  let  me 
say,  I  always  find  in  you,  a  sincere  and  loyal  love  of  that  which  renders 
beauty  beautiful  and  manhood  best  I  found  in  it  Nature,  too,  who  does 
not  read  the  weekly  journals  enough  to  forget  why  Moses  wrote  the  Deca- 
logue, nor  what  reason  She  gave  him  first  of  all  to  do  it  I  am  no  novel 
reader,  and  in  morals  they  call  me  a  Puritan — but  I  admire  and  marvel  at 
your  exquisite  and  most  healthy  and  excellent  story,  which  teaches  the  force 
of  a  true  love  over  an  unspiritual  temperament,  and  paints  a  lady  that  is 
indeed  every  inch  a  lady.  To  be  brief,  I  lent  the  book  to  my  sister  when 
I  had  read  it :  and  will  defend  it  as  an  enrichment  of  the  best  English 
literature  with  hearty  good  will,  at  any  place  and  time. 

"  Yours  truly,  and,  for  the  book,  gratefully, 

"Edwin  Arnold. 

"  C.  Readk,  Esq." 


384  Memoir  of  Charles  Jieade. 

So  far  as  concerned  this  country  the  book  met  with  but 
few  outward  expressions  of  disfavor.  It  may  be  said, 
without  exaggeration,  to  have  floated  The  Argosy.  It 
stormed  the  almost  impregnable  citadel  of  ci'iticism.  In 
respect  of  imagination,  sustained  interest,  variety  and 
vigor  of  incident,  and,  above  all,  of  situation,  it  fulfilled 
all,  and  more  than  all,  the  conditions  of  an  ideal  novel. 
The  characters  lived  and  moved,  and  the  dialogue — as 
might  be  inferred  without  the  saying — was  terse  and  epi- 
grammatic; perhaps  we  may  add  as  an  additional  encomi- 
um, rigorously  true  to  nature.  No  one  could  grumble  ex- 
cept in  regard  of  the  motif;  and,  as  it  happened,  the  se- 
verer censors  were  found,  not  in  Exeter  Hall,  but  in  the 
United  States. 

There  was  a  print,  affected  by  Brother  Jonathan,  bearing 
the  romantic  title.  The  Hound  Table.  This  organ  of  moral 
perfection  elected  to  regard  "  Griffith  Gaunt "  as  of  the 
nature  of  a  snake  in  the  grass,  and  said  as  much,  or  rather, 
to  be  strictly  accurate,  a  good  deal  more.  Charles  Reade 
rejoined  with  his  normal  pulverizing  fury,  and  not  con- 
tent with  having  crushed  his  butterfly  Avith  a  brickbat, 
had  recourse  to  legal  proceedings.  Here  he  was  less  tri- 
umphant. In  "  The  States  "  a  verdict  is  said  to  depend 
on  your  ability  to  procure  a  judge,  and  having  secured 
that  vantage,  to  attract  the  sympathies  of  a  jury.  The 
former  of  these  requirements  could  be  met  by  the  dodgery 
of  your  American  legal  representative;  the  latter  was  a 
physical  impossibility.  The  equity  which  decided  the 
Alabama  Claims  against  England  and  our  colossal  Cock- 
bura,  in  the  teeth  of  the  evidence,  may  be  taken  as  the 
measure  of  jurisprudence  which  obtains  in  an  inchoate 
community  dominated  by  democratic  license.  It  was  in 
vain  for  any  limb  of  the  law,  be  he  Cicero  or  Demosthenes, 


Three  Novels  and  Three  Plays.  335 

to  attempt  to  establish  a  libel  when  the  plaintiff  was  a 
Britisher.  The  jury  could  not  find  directly  for  the  de- 
fendants, but  they  did  so  in  effect  by  rewarding  Charles 
Reade  damages  to  the  extent  of  six  cents. 

The  author  smarted,  but  shrugged  his  shoulders.  His 
mind  was  not  cast  in  the  mould  Avhich  would  condemn  the 
cream  of  a  great  nation  because  of  the  sourness  of  its  skim- 
milk.  We  are  able  to  place  on  record  the  fact  that  this 
verdict,  which  in  his  own  country  would  have  sent  him 
in  celeres  iamhos  furentem,  never  changed  his  opinion  of 
America  and  her  refined  sons  and  daughters.  He  was 
gratified  when  Americans  paid  him  the  compliment  of 
courting  his  acquaintance.  He  never  lost  an  opportunity 
of  cultivating  American  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  of  dis- 
playing his  preference  for  all  things  American.  When  the 
Harvard  crew  came  over  to  row  against  Oxford,  he  offered 
them  hospitality;  and  has  preserved  among  his  collection 
of  choice  letters  one  from  Loring,  their  stroke.  He  corre- 
sponded with  Dr.  Russell  Lowell,  and  boasted  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Reverdy  Johnson,  General  Sickles,  and  Ar- 
temus  Ward.  Among  his  numerous  American  friends  may 
be  especially  named  his  kinsman,  General  Meredith  Read, 
who  represented  the  United  States  at  the  Court  of  Athens, 
and  Mr.  Howse,  now  the  editor  of  a  paper  at  Yokohama. 
But  for  mal  de  mer  he  would  have  crossed  to  the  other 
side;  and,  once  there,  might  have  prolonged  his  visit  al- 
most indefinitely.  To  this  excellent  feeling  Americans 
themselves  have  readily  testified — notably  Mrs.  Fields, 
wife  of  the  eminent  publisher,  a  lady  whose  recollections 
of  Charles  Reade  evince  both  the  quality  of  genuine  friend- 
ship and  the  tenderness  of  womanhood. 

"  Griffith  Gaunt "  was  the  culminating-point  of  Charles 
Reade's  literary  career.     He  had  paid  his  debts,  saved  a 


336  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

handsome  sum,  earned  reputation  both  as  a  novelist  and 
dramatist,  while  his  Fellowship  at  Magdalen  was  now 
yielding  a  dividend  exceeding  £500  a  year.  He  resolved 
accordingly  to  provide  himself  a  permanent  home;  and 
after  some  few  contretemps  and  changes  settled  finally  at 
Albert  Gate. 

His  residence  has  been  described  by  himself  in  "  A  Ter- 
rible Temptation,"  and  by  at  least  a  score  of  others.  It 
was  a  Georgian  house,  facing  Sloane  Street  on  the  south, 
and  on  the  north  the  park.  The  rooms  were  cramped,  as 
also  the  hall  and  staircase,  but  he  diminished  this  incon- 
venience by  throwing  out  a  large  room  at  the  back — his 
sanctum.  There  he  wrote  and  received  visitors,  at  times 
entertained — this  mainly  for  the  delectation  of  Mrs.  Sey- 
mour, for  he  was  not  convivial  and  not  gregarious — and 
passed  long  solitary  hours  with  his  menagerie,  his  dogs, 
his  hares,  his  gazelle,  and  other  fauna.  The  old  Ipsdcn 
craze  for  killing,  the  hereditary  instinct  of  a  sporting  race, 
quite  deserted  him.  He  had  learned  to  reverence  the  great 
gift  of  life,  and  had  he  lived  longer  might  have  attacked 
the  callous  vivisectors,  whom  he  always  spoke  of  with  the 
loathing  inspired  by  supreme  blackguardism. 

He  said  afterwards  that  the  years  spent  at  Albert  Gate 
were  the  happiest  of  his  life.  The  struggle  for  existence 
and  fame  was  over.  Mrs.  Seymour,  who  had  begun  as  his 
literary  partner,  had  grown  to  be  his  devoted  friend,  and 
it  is  no  reflection  on  either  to  admit  that  they  were  deeply 
attached  to  each  other.  This  lady,  who  was  as  sharp  as  a 
needle  at  driving  a  bargain,  in  private  life  seemed  possessed 
by  a  ceaseless  desire  to  do  good.  She  sent  small  sums 
anonymously  to  struggling  curates.  She  helped  largely 
members  of  her  own  profession  who  chanced  to^e  out  of 
employ  or  in  difficulties.     She  was  a  woman  of  prejudices. 


Three  Novels  and  Three  Plays.  337 

but  by  no  means  of  narrow  sympathies.  It  would  be  flat- 
tering her  memory  were  we  to  hint  that  she  possessed  the 
smallest  scintilla  of  that  sort  of  genius  which  goes  to  make 
a  good  housewife.  Most  people  would  have  defined  the 
menage  at  Albert  Gate  as  splendidly  uncomfortable;  but 
it  happened  that  Charles  Reads  was  of  all  human  beings 
both  the  most  untidy  and  the  least  observant,  so  that  rela- 
tively to  his  comfort  the  huggermugger  ways  of  the  the- 
atrical lady  signified  less  than  little.  He  lived  his  own 
life,  and  in  his  own  fashion. 

His  rule  was  to  work  from  nine  to  three.  Interruptions 
may  have  deducted  from  these  six  hours  an  average  of 
two,  but  when  pressed  he  would  work  on  till  four,  and  not 
seldom  in  the  evening.  At  a  guess  we  may  put  his  total 
of  labor  at  not  less  than  five  hours  a  day,  but  of  this  at 
least  one  hour  was  expended  in  making  cuttings  from 
newspapers  and  magazines  for  his  "  invaluable  "  note-books, 
as  he  termed  them.  The  World  remarked,  with  singular 
force,  that  ho  labored  under  the  preposterous  delusion  that 
he  was  destitute  of  imagination.  It  was  this  disbelief  in 
himself  which  caused  him  to  accumulate  masses  of  police 
evidence,  and  other  material,  never,  happily  for  his  reputa- 
tion, to  be  utilized.  The  dread  of  missing  some  good 
thing  caused  him  to  waste  at  least  three  hundred  hours  per 
annum  on  scissors-and-paste  work,  so  that  eventually,  when 
be  came  to  catalogue  and  classify  all  this  congeries  of  in- 
formation, the  headings  alone  covered  twelve  pages  of 
printed  matter  in  double  columns.  The  matter  itself  was 
stored  in  guard-books,  and  digests,  and  is  mostly  of  the 
sort  specially  adapted  to  anecdotal  journalism — "  Tidbits," 
and  the  like. 

Literature,  unlike  every  other  vocation,  develops  into 
an  ineradicable  habit.    The  schoolmaster,  the  politician, 
15 


888  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

the  government  clerk,  soldier,  sailor,  parson,  merchant, 
doctor,  tradesman,  and  artisan,  all  crave  for  their  holiday. 
The  writer  alone  holds  by  force  of  habit  to  the  rule,  ^^ Nulla 
dies  sine  linedy  We  who  remember  Charles  Reade  as  the 
man  of  leisure,  whose  ergon  was  amusement,  can  but  note 
the  contrast  between  different  periods  of  his  life.  It  is  a 
fact  that  he  labored  most  sedulously  when  labor  itself  was 
a  matter  of  option. 

At  the  same  time  it  must  be  admitted  that  there  were 
moments  when  he  seemed  to  require  a  spur.  It  was  per- 
haps the  languor,  after  so  marked  a  success  as  "  Griffith 
Gaunt,"  that  induced  him  to  enter  into  collaboration  with 
a  warm  personal  friend,  whom  he  esteemed  highly  as  an 
artist,  Mr.  Dion  Boucicault. 

The  result  was  rated  by  the  press  as  rather  rococo, 
"Foul  Play"  is  not  merely  dramatic,  but  histrionic,  and 
might  appropriately  have  been  termed  "  The  New  Robin- 
son Crusoe."  It  is  a  capital  story,  none  the  less  sp  because 
it  outrages  probability  ;  and  whatever  merit  it  possesses 
Charles  Reade  always  readily  accorded  to  his  literary  col- 
league. "  I  agree  with  you,"  he  says,  as  though  criticising 
his  friend,  rather  than  the  book, " '  Foul  Play '  is  very  sharp 
and  good.  It  was  written  on  the  right  system.  Bouci- 
cault produced  the  greater  part  of  it  in  pure  dramatic  dia- 
logue, which  makes  an  excellent  backbone  for  me."  Still, 
he  adds — the  book  being  still  in  progress — "  my  work  wor- 
ries and  discourages  me;  but  somehow  when  it  comes  out 
in  print  it  seems  all  right.     I  am  in  the  vein  now." 

The  press,  however,  began  to  laugh.  Mr.  Burnand  paro- 
died the  story  in  Punch,  under  the  style  of  "  Chicken-haz- 
ard," and  Charles  Reade  writhed  under  the  very  good-hu- 
mored satire.  He  called  it  indignantly  desecration  of  a 
work  of  art,  and  could  not  bring  himself  to  join  in  the 


Three  Novels  and  Three  Plays.  339 

laugh.  In  vain  did  the  writer  of  these  lines  assure  him 
that  chaff  is  a  delicate  form  of  flattery,  and  that  the  rol- 
licking fun  of  "Chicken-hazard"  was  never  intended  to 
detract  from  his  reputation.  He  was  hurt,  far  moi'e  so 
than  when  they  styled  two  of  his  works  immoral ;  and  per- 
haps this  feeling  was  all  the  more  unreasonable  because, 
on  the  hypothesis  that  the  travestie  designed  to  hold 
the  book  up  to  contempt,  the  individual  actually  affected 
was  its  originator,  Mr.  Boucicault,  and  not  its  embellisher, 
Charles  Reade. 

That,  however,  was  by  no  means  the  end  of  his  trouble. 
The  Pall  Mall  Gazette  wrote  a  critique  on  the  serial,  sug- 
gesting that  the  story  was  nothing  more  than  an  elabora- 
tion of  a  French  play,  "La  Portfeuille  Ruge."  This  was 
news.  In  a  letter  from  the  Palatine  Hotel,  Manchestei', 
he  earnestly  requests  Mrs.  Seymour  to  obtain,  without  a 
moment's  delay,  a  copy  of  the  above  play,  intimating  his 
ignorance  of  the  author.  In  fine,  whether  the  allegation 
was  verified,  or  the  reverse,  Charles  Reade  was  individu- 
ally innocent  of  plagiarism. 

"  Foul  Play"  was  subsequently  dramatized — in  spite  of 
a  hint  from  a  leading  actress  that  "  she  could  not  think 
how  they  were  going  to  do  it " — and  its  initial  performance 
at  Leeds  seems  to  have  been  very  gratifying  to  Charles 
Reade.  This  is  his  description  of  the  event :  " '  Foul  Play ' 
came  out  last  night.  They  began,  with  their  usual  judg- 
ment, half  an  hour  after  the  time,  and  the  waits  between 
the  acts  were  longer,  by  the  watch,  than  the  acts. 

"  With  all  these  drawbacks  it  was  an  undeniable  success; 
and  may,  I  think,  work  up  to  a  great  success. 

"The  best -played  parts  were  Helen,  Joe  Wy  lie,  and 
Nancy  Rouse.  Coleman  stronger  than  anybody  in  places; 
but  too  slow  and  ponderous.  Scenes  good  as  a  whole. 
For  once  the  performance  has  only  suggested  one  cut. 


340  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

"  You  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  the  first  call  was  for 
me.  I  was  rather  reluctant  to  bow,  before  an  actor  had 
received  ovation.  But  Coleman  came  and  made  me,  and 
certainly  I  was  never  received  with  the  sort  of  enthusiasm. 
Some  of  the  men  stood  up,  and  the  ladies  waved  their 
handkerchiefs  to  me  all  over  the  house.  I  thought  I  was 
in  France." 

In  1868  "Griffith  Gaunt,"  in  a  dramatic  form,  appeared 
before  a  Manchester  audience  with  'eclat ;  and  it  remains 
on  record  that,  had  its  author  returned  in  1884  from  the 
south  of  France  to  live,  instead  of  to  die,  his  desire  was  to 
revive  this  drama  in  London  under  the  auspices  of  Mr. 
John  Coleman.  That  was  not  to  be;  but  the  fact  affords 
evidence  of  a  firm  belief  in  the  dramatic  quality  of  the 
most  intense  of  all  his  narratives. 

This  was  followed  in  the  succeeding  year  by  the  adap- 
tation of  Lord  Tennyson's  pathetic  idyl  "Dora,"  for  the 
Adelphi  Theatre.  The  vicissitudes  of  the  drama  are  pro- 
verbial, nevertheless  the  ill-luck  of  "  Dora  "  may  fairly  be 
styled  unique.  Never  before  had  a  piece  been  wrecked 
owing  to  defective  scenic  accessories.  There  is  but  one 
fatal  step  even  from  the  sublimity  of  our  ethereal  laureate 
to  the  painfully  ridiculous,  and  this  was  achieved  by — to 
be  frank — poor  Mrs.  Seymour,  who,  being  cockney-bred, 
could  hardly  realize  the  attributes  of  a  cornfield.  Suffice 
it  that  when  the  farmer  of  the  play  pointed  to  his  acres 
of  golden  grain,  which  consisted  of  American  cloth,  the 
audience  was  convulsed.  ^^Misum  teneatis,  amicir"  was 
passed  from  the  lips  of  critic  to  critic,  and  "Dora"  col- 
lapsed. 

It  was  a  bitter  pill  for  Charles  Reade.  He  had  not  been 
accustomed  to  failure,  and  moreover  had  lavished  labor  to 
render  his  adaptation  worthy  of  the  immortal  poet  whose 


Three  Novels  and  Three  Plays.  341 

tbeme  he  availed  himself  of.  He  registered  then  and  there 
a  vow  that  some  day  he  would  give  the  drama  a  second 
chance,  and  he  kept  it. 

In  1870  his  good  friend,  Mr.  Smith,  offered  him  a  place 
in  the  Comhill  Magazine,  and  he  felt  in  consequence  put 
on  his  mettle  to  produce  another  magnum  opics,  the  parallel, 
if  so  it  might  be,  of  ^'Sera  Nunquam.^^  During  the  prog- 
ress of  "A  Good  Fight" — about  the  year  1859 — a  lady  in 
indigent  circumstances,  residing  then  at  Sheffield,  had  ap- 
pealed to  him  for  aid,  and  not  in  vain.  He  begged  her  in 
return  to  furnish  him  with  all  the  material  she  could  ob- 
tain relative  to  the  action  of  the  trades'  unions  in  terroriz- 
ing workmen.  She  replied  that  she  could  glean  no  facts 
whatsoever,  and  this,  strange  to  say,  though  she  was  offered 
a  handsome  rate  of  pay,  and  was  also  in  wretched  circum- 
stances. Charles  Reade  let  her  down  with  the  epithet 
"  idiot,"  and  turned  to  other  sources  for  the  information  he 
sought.  Probably,  from  1859  to  1869,he  had  been  steadily 
collecting  material  for  the  book  he  was  about  to  write. 
Anyhow,  recent  events  helped  him,  and  he  had  but  to  make 
some  personal  investigations  in  order  to  possess  the  frame- 
work of  a  strong  story. 

He  did  so.  What  is  more,  he  might  have  regretted  his 
ambition  tractare  serpentes,  since,  in  plain  English,  he  risked 
his  life.  The  assassins  were  so  infuriated  by  his  picture 
of  themselves  and  their  dark  deeds,  that  they  actually  pro- 
posed to  add  him  to  the  number  of  their  victims,  and  sent 
him  formal  notice  to  that  effect.  Whether  they  thought 
better  of  it,  or  whether  as  they  read  on  they  perceived  that 
the  author  was  no  more  a  friend  of  the  tyranny  of  capital 
than  of  the  tyranny  of  labor,  and  so  had  the  wit  to  avoid 
striking  a  friend  in  mistake  for  a  foe,  we  know  not.  Suf- 
fice it  that  the  bnitum  fulmen  did  no  more  evil  than  cause 


342  Memoir  of  Cliarles  lieade. 

a  brave  and  honest  soul  many  sleepless  nights,  and  also  ex- 
acerbate his  whole  nature  against  the  proletariate. 

"What,"  cried  he  to  his  niece,  "do  yon  believe  in  the 
workingmeu  ?" 

"  Don't  you?"  was  the  halting  inquiry  of  the  lady. 

"Nasty  beasts!"  was  the  scornful  rejoinder. 

It  was  their  own  fault.  In  his  passion  for  justice,  for 
equal  laws,  and  equal  rights,  Charles  Reade  was  a  demo- 
crat. But  he  was  also  a  gentleman  pur  sang,  and  when 
blackguardism  proposed  to  have  his  blood  for  no  other 
reason  than  because  he  had  borne  testimony  on  behalf  of 
righteousness,  he  turned  against  it,  as  against  a  reptile 
whose  heart  was  as  black  as  its  hands. 

Yet  he  went  down  to  Sheffield,  and  other  manufacturing 
centi'es,  with  a  mind  impartial  and  open  to  conviction.  He 
did  not  hesitate  to  fix  blame  on  the  masters  where  he 
deemed  it  due;  and  he  expected  that  either  side  would 
recognize  the  judicial  attitude  of  a  writer  who  had  as  little 
liking  for  the  brutality  of  plutocracy  as  for  the  brutality 
of  rattening.  To  demonstrate  that  he  was  actually  on  the 
spot  itself,  we  append  quotations  from  two  letters: 

First  from  4  Handsfield  Road,  Sheffield: 

"  I  saw  Broadhead  yesterday,  and  indeed  was  in  his  bar- 
parlor  for  nearly  an  hour.  Noted  his  head,  face,  conversa- 
tion; but  of  course  we  never  touched  the  particular  sub- 
ject in  which  he  is  distinguished." 

Secondly,  from  332  Oxford  Road,  Manchester: 

"Your  letter  was  a  great  relief  to  me.  Thank  good- 
ness, that  Irish  fiend  "  (a  bibulous  cook;  Mrs.  Seymour  had 
a  penchant  for  Irish  servants)  "  is  out,  and  a  Saxon  in. 

"  Yesterday  I  received  several  men  who  had  been  beaten, 
injured,  shot  by  the  Unions ;  and  in  the  evening  a  detec- 
tive, the  richest  fellow  in  the  world.     Oh,  for  a  short- 


Three  Novels  and  Three  Plays.  343 

hand  writer,  to  record  the  things  I  heard.  Seriously, 
were  I  Dickens,  it  would  pay  me  well  to  take  a  short- 
hand writer  everywhere.  I  am  getting  anecdotes  and  racy 
dicta. 

"But  the  worst  is,  I  don't  succeed  in  finding  Thomas 
Wilde,  which  was  my  great  object  in  coming  here.  Of 
course  I  shall  stick  to  it  till  the  last;  but  I  cannot  consent 
to  spend  another  week  in  Manchester,  a  place  I  hate.  I 
would  rather  go,  and  come  back  to  it  when  Wilde  is  found. 
How  I  wished  you  had  been  with  me  yesterday — what  a 
chapter  of  experiences  it  was !" 

Shortly  after  the  story  had  got  under  way  in  the 
Cornhill^  Charles  Reade  seems  to  have  invited  his  dear 
friend  Wilkie  Collins's  criticism.  If  it  were  not  heresy, 
we  should  almost  be  tempted  to  hint  that  he  reverenced 
the  plot- weaver  of  intricate  texture  as  profoundly  as  Dick- 
ens, the  incomparable  humorist.  This  would  hardly  be 
correct,  yet  it  may  not  be  impertinent  to  add  that  whereas 
he  and  Dickens  were  on  terms  of  friendship,  his  friendship 
with  Wilkie  Collins  had  ripened  into  intimacy.  "  Go  at 
once  and  see  him,"  he  on  one  occasion  wrote  peremptorily 
to  Mrs.  Seymour,  on  hearing  of  his  friend's  illness,  "  in 
bed  or  out  of  bed." 

Mr.  Wilkie  Collins's  reply  to  Charles  Reade  was  as  fol- 
lows: 

"  CONSIDEEATIONS   FOR   R. 

"I  start  from  the  December  number — and  I  say  the 
interest  in  the  character  is  so  strong,  the  collision  of  human 
passions  is  so  admirably  and  so  subtly  struck  out,  that  the 
public  will  have  no  more  of  new  trades'  unions  and  their 
outrages.  They  will  skip  pages  3,  4,  5,  in  the  November 
number — they  will  resent  the  return  to  the  subject  in  the 
December  number.    I  don't  suggest  alteration  of  these. 


844  Memoir  of  Charles  Beade. 

I  only  say  what  I  say  as  a  warning  for  the  future.  Keep 
to  the  cutlers,  and  keep  the  cutlers  mixed  up  Avith  Henry 
Coventry,  Grace  and  Jael,  and  you  are  safe. 

"  Now,  as  to  the  brickraakers,  I  have  read  the  report. 
They  are  even  worse  than  the  cutlers.  But,  as  an  artist 
and  a  just  man,  you  don't  take  the  worst  case  for  illustra- 
tion. You  take  the  medium  case,  which  may  apply  gen- 
erally to  all  trades'  unions. 

"  If  J"  had  the  story  to  finish,  I  should  make  the  capi- 
talist's difficulty  in  setting-up  the  buildings  for  working 
Henry's  invention  arise  from  his  knowledge  of  what  the 
brickniakers  will  certainly  do.  I  should  make  him  put 
this  forcibly  in  dialogue  with  Henry — and  I  should  make 
Henry  feel,  exactly  what  the  reader  will  feel,  immeasurable 
disgust  at  this  repetition  of  tyranny,  outrage,  and  mur- 
der. '  What !  am  I  to  go  through  it  all  again  with  the 
brickraakers?  More  conspiracies,  explosions,  mutilations, 
and  deaths?'  '  That's  the  prospect,  Mr.  Little  I'  'Am 
jTto  give  up  my  inventions;  and  are  you  to  give  up  your 
profits?'  *No;  we  are  to  look  out  for  a  ready-made  arti- 
cle in  the  shape  of  an  empty  building  which  will  suit  us — 
and  give  the  brickraakers  the  go-by  in  that  way.' 

"  The  building  is  formed,  as  in  your  plot — and  there  are 
the  brickraakers,  just  touched  and  dismissed,  and  the  story 
running  on  again,  Avith  the  selling-up  of  the  saw-grinding 
machinery,  and  all  the  incidents  which  follow,  with  this 
additional  advantage,  that  Henry  does  not  do  over  again 
with  the  brickraakers  what  he  has  already  done  with  the 
cutlers. 

"As  to  other  points:  1.  Hurry  the  story  (if  possible) 
to  Henry's  proposal  to  Grace  to  marry  him,  and  go  away 
with  hira,  and  to  Grace's  refusal.  You  want  that  strong 
point,  and  that  definite  result,  after  keeping  the  suspended 


Three  Novels  and  Three  Plays.  345 

interest  so  long  vibrating  backwards  and  forwards  be- 
tween Grace's  two  lovers. 

"  2.  I  doubt  a  second  blowing-up  with  gunpowder.  Can 
the  necessary  results  be  arrived  at  in  no  other  way?  Can 
it  not  be  done  by  a  pre-arranged  escape  of  gas,  for  in- 
stance ?  Or  by  some  other  explosive  or  destructive  agent  ? 
"Query?  "The  scencs  in  the  ruined  church  are  so  ad- 

i9  no  doubt  ai-  mirable  and  original  that  I  want  the  church  to 
ready  in  your  play  an  important  part  in  the  story.     "Would 

l)lau-Mr.Raby  f     /  „^ ,  ,       ,r       t^   ,  •  -■ 

haviDg  alluded  it  be  possible  to  make  Mr.  Kaby  repair  and 
the  desecmted  rcconsecrate  it  for  public  worship  ?  Then  to 
building.  make  the  marriage  of  Grace  and  Coventry  take 

place  in  it?  And  then  to  have  the  marriage  invalidated 
by  some  informality  in  the  consecration,  or  in  the  regis- 
tration for  marriages,  of  the  newly-restored  church? 

"  I  don't  know  whether  such  an  event  as  this  would  be 
legally  possible ;  or  whether,  if  it  cotdd  be  possible,  j'^ou 
could  harmonize  my  idea  with  your  notion  of  the  uncer- 
tificated clergyman? 

"But  it  seems  to  me  a  good  point  to  make  the  old 
church  in  which  Henry  has  worked  and  suffered  for  Grace 
the  retributive  agent  in  defeating  Coventry,  and  uniting 
Henry  to  the  woman  whom  he  loves. 

"  The  first  marriage  celebrated  in  the  church  might  be 
the  marriage  of  Coventry  and  Grace,  and  so  all  difficulty 
about  the  marriages  of  other  couples  might  be  avoided. 

"  Or,  perhaps,  you  already  mean  to  end  the  story  with 
the  marriage  of  Henry  and  Grace  in  the  restored  old 
church?  Anyhow  I,  as  reader,  certify  the  church  to  be 
*an  interesting  character.  "- 

The  whole  of  this  is  pasted  in  Charles  Readers  volume 
of  invaluable  letters,  with  the  aside,  "  These  are  remarks 
15* 


846  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

by  my  friend  Wilkie,  made  at  the  10th,  or  December  No. 
of  my  story,  'Pat  Yourself  in  His  Place,'  then  running 
in  the  CornhiU  Magazine.  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  please 
him  at  last." 

The  curious  reader  is  invited  to  take  up  the  book  from 
the  point  named,  and  contrast  the  actual  elaboration  of 
the  plot  with  that  here  suggested  by  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins. 
It  seems  almost  unfortunate  that  the  two  masters  of  fiction 
did  not  lay  their  heads  together  and  work  it  out — this 
without  disrespect  to  the  actual  author,  who  certainly 
kept  the  interest  alive  up  to  the  last  page. 

Following  the  precedent  of  "  Foul  Play,"  Charles  Reade 
dramatized  his  novel  promptly.  It  was  a  genuine  drama, 
and  yet  he  complained,  almost  peevishly,  as  he  labored 
upon  it  in  his  college  rooms,  that  it  did  not  dramatize 
easily.  It  was  a  doctrine  of  his,  that  to  write  a  novel  may 
be  possible  for  any  one  of  average  intelligence  and  some 
artistic  invention,  whereas  to  write  a  play — that  would 
play — was  an  evidence  of  genius,  not  perhaps  inevitably 
of  the  highest  order,  but  always  of  a  quality  transcending 
mere  talent.  Pushed  to  its  logical  conclusion,  his  theory 
would  have  reacted  rather  unpleasantly  on  himself;  enough 
that,  like  ambidexteiity,  it  was  one  among  the  many  para- 
doxes he  cherished  as  axioms. 

Under  the  title  "  Free  Labor,"  the  play  made  its  ap- 
pearance on  May  30,  1870,  before  the  story  had  run  its 
course  in  the  CornhiU  Magazine.  TJie  Times  commenced 
a  sympathetic  notice  with  the  somewhat  startling  compli- 
ment :  "  Mr.  Reade  is  as  clever  as  he  is  crotchety."  That 
was  perhaps  rather  irrelevant,  a  text  hardly  appropriate 
to  Jupiter's  homily.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr.  Reade  pro- 
duced his  play  in  a  theatre  consecrated  to  melodrama  of 
the  most  realistic  type,  and  he  did  so  with  genuine  stage 


Three  Novels  and  Three  Plays.  347 

effects.  Jupiter  itself  was  obliged  to  admit  that  Mr. 
Henry  Neville,  who  played  the  part  of  Harry  Little  with 
characteristic  force  and  finish,  did  "actually  forge  real 
edge  tools,  on  a  real  anvil,  with  a  real  hammer — and  un- 
commonly well."  The  burden  of  the  piece  fell  entirely  on 
this  one  actor,  whose  genius  really  saved  it  from  failure. 
It  was  not  destined  to  lasting  popularity  in  the  metropo- 
lis, but  succeeded  better  with  provincial  audiences,  and 
especially  in  Birmingham  and  Sheffield,  where  the  theme 
was  sufficiently  familiar. 

The  subjoined  pair  of  billets  doux  were  presei*ved  by 
Charles  Reade  among  his  literary  curiosities  : 

"25ihMay,  1810. 
"  B.  Webster,  Esq. : 

"yiSifr, — You  are  about  to  produce,  at  the  Royal  Adelphi  Theatre,  Mr. 
Reade's  novel  of  '  Put  Yourself  in  His  Place,*  under  the  name  of  '  Free 
Labor.'  Mr.  Reade's  novel  is  a  gross  outrage  on  trades'  unions.  He 
knows  no  more  about  trades'  unions  than  he  does  about  the  patent  oiBce, 
which  he  attempts  to  describe  in  his  work.  I  have  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  the  play  will  be  cried  down  on  the  first  night  of  its  representa- 
tion. I  am,  sir,  yours  obedient, 

"An  amalgamated  Engiseer." 

"  Dear  Sir, — '  Truth  copies  fiction  of  a  certain  order.'  With  regard  to 
your  bill  with  the  above  heading,  I  heard  it  asserted  by  a  printer  (who  has 
what  is  called  an  '  Open  House,'  i.  e.,  employs  both  unionists  and  non-union- 
ists) that  the  recent  outrage,  reported  in  The  Eclio,  was  the  result  of  what 
had  been  seen  on  the  Adelphi  stage.  I  think  you  ought  to  hear  these 
things,  because  it  shows  the  perversity  of  people.  G.  H.  G." 

We  cannot  conclude  this  chapter  better  than  by  ap- 
pending the  verba  verberrima  of  the  leading  actor,  whose 
acknowledgment  of  a  keepsake  presented  him  by  the 
dramatist  he  had  served  so  well  will  strike  most  minds, 
as  it  strikes  us,  as  being  indicative  of  a  warmth  of  heart 
which  perhaps  may  go  far  towards  accounting  for  the 
prolonged  success  of  his  histrionic  career. 


348  Memoir  of  Cliarles  Eeade. 

''\  ♦•  Olympic  Theatek,  June  6, 1871. 

"  My  tkry  IWAR  Reade, — I  have  no  words  hearty  enough  to  express  my 
delight  and  gratitude  for  the  splendid  compliment  you  have  been  good 
enough  to  pay  me.  1  am  overwhelmed — I  don't  know  what  to  say — thanks 
are  commonplace,  and  my  heart  is  boiling  over  with  gushing  sentiments, 
which  perhaps  would  not  look  well  on  paper,  and  could  but  feebly  express 
my  true  feelings.  I  am  jn-oiid  indeed,  and  shall  ever  be,  of  your  noble 
present,  uml /latlerinff  inscription.  The  association  of  my  name  with  yours 
is  one  of  the  most  gratifying  circumstances  of  my  life.  I  have  always  had 
intense  admiration  for  you — true  friend,  noble,  kind-hearted  gentleman — 
with  words  of  fire  for  all  things  false  and  base.  Believe  mc,  your  kind- 
ness is  thoroughly  appreciated — and  with  my  heart's  best  thanks,  I  am 
always.  Yours  faithfully, 

"  Henry  G.  Neville." 

The  writer  will,  we  sincerely  trust,  pardon  the  inclusion 
of  this  letter  among  others  that  embellish  our  pages.  It 
was  one  which  the  recipient  valued  so  highly  that  he  pre- 
served, not  merely  the  letter  itself,  but — as  he  did  in  the 
case  of  Charles  Dickens — the  envelope  also.  This  tribute 
was  not,  we  may  add,  presented  especially  on  account  of 
Mr.  Neville's  impersonation  of  Harry  Little,  but  rather  be- 
cause of  a  close  association  with  other  leading  characters, 
such  as  Tom  Robinson  and  Robert  Penfold,  where  the 
author  was  deeply  indebted  to  the  actor.  We  have  ven- 
tured to  print  it,  because  it  bears  testimony,  in  simple  yet 
ardent  language,  to  the  exalted  motives  which  invariably 
actuated  Charles  Reade,  and  ever  raised  him  far  above 
the  level  of  theati'ical  money-grubbers. 

"If,"  said  our  author  on  one  occasion  to  a  querulous 
manager, "  you  had  wished  for  a  play  to  please  the  pub- 
lic, you  should  not  have  asked  me  to  write  for  you  " — in 
other  words  he  never  deviated  from  his  sense  of  art  and 
right  to  court  a  cheer.  Let  us  say,  in  Mr.  Neville's  own 
speaking  language,  his  pen  issued  "  words  of  fire  for  all 
things  false  and  base." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

IDEAL    JOURNALISM. 

Three  novels  dealing  with  social  topics  had  already 
invested  their  author  with  a  new  character.  He  was  an 
artist,  perhaps  primarily  so,  for,  unlike  Disraeli,  he  did 
not  utilize  fiction  as  a  medium  for  promulgating  political 
doctrine.  But  he  was  also  stamped  as  a  social  reformer 
of  the  most  thorough  sort,  and  people  with  a  grievance 
sought  him  out  from  all  quarters.  He  had  set  a  very  big 
ball  rolling — should  he  follow  it  up  ? 

He  thought  seriously  of  so  doing,  in  his  own  fashion  of 
course,  for  he  was  nothing  if  not  individual.  To  this  end 
he  proposed  to  run  a  magazine,  which  should  comprise  with 
the  solidity  of  the  "  Nineteenth  Century,"  "  Contemporary," 
and  "  Fortnightly,"  something  of  the  slaughtering  quality 
of  Mr.  Labouchere's  "  Truth  ";  but  to  be  rigidly  non-politi- 
cal. The  project  never  assumed  a  concrete  form.  He 
discovered  that  to  float  a  magazine  costs  several  thousand 
pounds,  all  of  which  may  be  lost,  should  either  the  public 
or  the  advertisers  disapprove.  Mrs.  Seymour  at  his  el- 
bow cautioned  him.  Inclination,  moreover,  prompted  him 
rather  to  lose  on  his  plays  than  on  social  idiosyncrasies. 
Hence  the  nebular  magazine  began  and  ended  with  a 
prologue,  which,  as  reflecting  the  mind  of  its  author,  de 
omnibus  reipublicoB  rebue,  we  append. 

It  is  headed — 


850  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade, 

"The  Situation. 

*'  The  nation  is  improving,  on  the  whole,  in  goodness, 
wisdom,  and  wealth.  Free  trade  prevails,  and  England, 
following  tardily  the  wisdom  of  Prussia,  at  last  compels 
low  parents  to  educate  their  cliildren. 

"  Drink  still  ruins  the  lower  orders,  and  legislators  have 
not  the  courage  to  quench  it  in  earnest,  or  perhaps  cannot 
afford  to  quench  it. 

"  Taxation  is  crushing,  and  in  some  few  cases  unjust ; 
in  others,  what  sticks  to  the  collector's  fingers  is  so  great, 
and  what  reaches  the  public  coffers  so  small,  that  the  tax 
becomes  bad  State  economy. 

"  In  Parliamentary  elections  we  have  given  perjury  and 
rotten  eggs  trial  upon  trial ;  and  at  last  we  are  sick  of 
them.  The  tardiest  begin  to  see  that  anything  may  be 
better,  and  nothing  can  be  worse,  than  wholesale  perjury, 
bribery,  and  riot :  so  d,  priori  reasoning  gives  way  to  ex- 
perience, and  the  ballot  is  to  have  a  trial.  As  no  nation 
has  ever  given  it  up  after  trial,  no  more  will  England. 

"  There  is  more  active  religion  than  ever,  and  more  re- 
spectable infidelity.  The  religious  repeat  numerous  prayers 
in  public,  but  as  regards  their  fellow-men  seldom  act  up 
to  their  tenets :  nor  the  infidels  down  to  theirs,  but  only 
talk  one's  hair  on  end.  Some  learned  divines  hover  be- 
tween the  two  camps :  the  right  Reverend  Father  in  God, 
Cocker,  whose  teeth  are  longer  than  Spinosa's,  has  gnawed 
away  the  details  of  the  Pentateuch ;  the  Oxford  doctors 
have  nibbled  away  a  good  slice  of  the  New  Testament. 
The  learned  Renan  has  outdone  Socinus;  for  he  has  proved 
Jesus  Christ  a  Frenchman  :  and  that  causes  a  reaction  in 
sturdy  Anglo-Saxons,  me  included. 

"The  Sovereign  has  abdicated  her  highest  prerogative; 


Ideal  Journalism.  351 

she  no  longer  signs  death  -  wan'ants :  a  subject  decides 
whether  his  fellow-subject  is  to  live  or  die,  which  is  un- 
constitutional. So  long  as  the  monarchy  exists  it  is  the 
law  of  England  that  no  head  shall  fall  but  under  the  sign 
manual  of  the  Sovereign — Blackstoiw. 

"This  is  the  Sovereign's  privilege,  but  the  subject's 
right ;  to  rob  him  of  it  is  to  abolish  monarchy.  Conse- 
quently, every  man  who  has  been  hanged  of  late  in  Eng- 
land has  been  killed  unconstitutionally — in  a  word,  more 
or  less  lynched. 

"These  excusable  homicides  are  now  done  privately. 
Certain  shallow  men  urged  on  the  State  the  scandal  of  a 
public  execution,  and  criminals  are  now  hanged  cannily 
in  a  comer,  without  the  Queen's  sign  manual. 

"  The  deliberate  slaughter  in  cold  blood,  even  of  a  mur- 
derer, can  be  justified  on  two  grounds  combined  :  retribu- 
tive justice  and  public  terror.  This  is  the  only  sound 
theory  of  capital  punishment.  But  subtract  publicity, 
and  the  act  is  lowered  to  clandestine  vengeance.  Intelli- 
gent men,  who  have  seen  these  justifiable  homicides,  come 
away  shuddering,  and  saying  to  themselves,  'We  have 
seen  a  man's  life  stolen  secretly.' 

"  Our  judges,  the  mouthpieces  of  law — are  still  chosen 
from  a  band  of  outlaws — highly  respectable  ones  of  course; 
but  so  long  as  a  client  can,  by  law,  defraud  counsel  of  his 
fee  for  service,  if  he  does  not  take  it  in  advance,  and  coun- 
sel can,  by  law,  take  the  fee,  yet  cheat  the  client  out  of 
his  services,  counsel  are  outlaws. 

"  This  anomaly  of  law  actually  leads  to  frauds  upon  the 
suitor  by  distinguished  counsel  on  their  road  to  the  judg- 
ment-seat. The  fraud  is  perpetrated  by  the  influence  of 
the  lawyers,  because  it  does  not  work  evenly ;  the  suitor 
cannot  actually  defraud  them,  and  they  can  and  do  de- 


352  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

fraud  the  suitor.  The  English  public  is  mad  to  allow  this  Ro- 
man fraud  to  live  in  the  temple  of  English  law  and  justice. 

"  For  three  mortal  months  in  the  year  justice  is  sus- 
pended for  the  convenience  of  a  clique — justice,  which  is 
the  breath  of  every  nation's  nostrils.  The  poor  silly  na- 
tion submits  to  this.  Perhaps  if,  instead  of  the  Long  Va- 
cation, it  was  called  *  The  Suspension  of  Justice,'  we  should 
not  put  up  with  so  great  an  injury,  so  impudent  and  un- 
grateful an  insult. 

"  In  the  general  practice  of  our  law  courts  much  reform 
has  been  effected;  but  not  half  enough.  The  law  reform- 
ers have  been  lawyers;  and  no  clique,  however  well  dis- 
posed, can  see  one  half  its  own  abuses — prejudice  and 
precedent  are  too  strong.  Intelligent  laymen  must  also 
take  the  broom,  or  the  Augean  stable  will  never  be  swept. 
The  Buitor  is  too  much  oppressed  and  pillaged  in  our 
courts;  and  the  whole  legal  clique  is  given  to  forget  that 
he  is  the  representative  in  their  courts  of  that  great  and 
generous  public  which  supports  the  whole  system  of  judi- 
cature, and  pays  the  judges  their  princely  salaries,  and 
pays  those  who  appoint  the  judges. 

"Legislation — the  peers  seem  to  be  gradually  retiring 
from  it.  This  is  a  pity.  The  House  of  Commons  is  an 
arena  of  political  strife;  and  quiet  salutary  measures  are 
not  so  welcome  there  as  noisier  measures;  but,  as  regards 
the  true  welfare  of  the  whole  nation,  a  measure  about 
Avhich  the  great  parties  fight  with  a  view  to  office,  is  often 
a  clique  business,  and  a  smaller  national  measure  than  one 
which  evaporates  for  want  of  piquancy,  or  is  refused  a 
hearing  for  years,  and  then  passed  through  pure  apathy, 
not  appreciation.  I  may,  therefore,  in  these  pages  invite 
the  peers  to  consider  great  but  peaceful  measures,  bene- 
ficial, not  to  party,  but  only  to  mankind. 


Ideal  Journalism.  353 

"  Many  wise  laws  have  passed,  and  will ;  a  few  great 
defects  and  errors  remain  to  be  corrected.  The  most  fla- 
grant that  occur  to  me  all  in  a  moment  are : 

"  1.  The  want  of  a  sufficient  law  to  detect  and  punish 
with  fine  and  imprisonment  the  adulteration  of  milk,  and 
the  mere  diluting  of  milk.  It  is  an  Ilerodian  crime.  In- 
deed, it  is  wholesale  slaughter  of  the  community;  for  the 
community  is  principally  composed  of  children,  and  true 
milk  is  their  life,  watered  milk  their  death.  France  has 
for  many  years  detected  this  crime  by  science,  and  pun- 
ished it  by  imprisonment  ?i:we  do  neither,  and  more  fools 
we!  Adulteration  ought  to  be  attacked  with  more  rigor; 
something  has  been  done,  but  not  enough. 

"  2.  The  difficulty  of  ejecting  house-tenants  who  will  nei- 
ther pay  nor  go  is  monstrous.  Such  a  tenant  is  a  male- 
factor, and  the  legislature  has  not  observed  it.  If  such  a 
malefactor  holds  a  tenement  worth  only  £20  a  year,  the 
man  he  is  robbing  of  the  property  can  go  to  a  police  court, 
and  kick  the  robber  out;  but  if  the  property  is  worth  £300 
a  year,  then  there  is  no  remedy  for  the  victim  but  the  slow 
and  costly  process  of  ejectment,  with  loss  of  law  costs  and 
six  months'  rent.  In  other  words,  the  legislature  has  looked 
through  a  microscope,  and  seen  a  small  wrong  to  clear 
property  bigger  than  a  great  wrong.  Where  a  little  in- 
disputable property  is  concerned,  it  sees  the  real  sanctity 
of  property.  Where  a  large  indisputable  property  is  con- 
cerned, it  forgets  the  real  sanctity  of  property,  and  glues 
its  eyes  on  the  sanctity  of  possession,  which  is  a  pure  illu- 
sion; and  the  larger  the  property  the  more  disastrous  the 
illusion. 

"  We  still  hold  to  our  peninsulas  mania. 

"In  any  part  of  Europe,  except  England  proper  from 
the  Tweed  to  Lizard  Point,  if  a  man  and  woman,  through 


354  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

pure  frailty,  or  temporary  bars  to  marriage,  cohabit  and 
have  children,  but  afterwards  repent  and  marry,  their  chil- 
dren become  legitimate.  But  here,  in  this  little  peninsula, 
crammed  with  lawyers,  but  bare  of  jurists,  the  parents  can 
repent,  and  legitimatize  themselves,  the  sinners,  but  not 
their  children.  These  last  are  still  picked  out  and  pun- 
ished "without  remorse,  yet  they  are  the  parties  who  never 
sinned  at  all.  This  peninsular  mania  will  be  exposed  in 
these  pages  by  one  who  has  no  personal  interest  in  the 
question,  but  is  justly  ashamed  of  his  peninsula,  and  not 
to  be  humbugged  by  the  cant  of  King  John's  barons,  nor 
Queen  Victoria's  bombastical  pettifoggers. 

"  The  wrongs  of  authors  are  still  bitter,  and  a  disgrace 
to  the  legislature. 

"Muddleheads  still  call  copyright  a  monopoly;  and  can- 
not, or  will  not,  see  it  is  intellectual  property,  and  has  noth- 
ing whatever  in  common  with  monopoly;  and  this  fatal 
misuse  of  language  is  a  main  source  of  the  foul  injustice 
to  authors  at  home  and  abroad.  Acting  on  this  fallacy, 
the  government  of  1847  committed  one  of  the  most  bar- 
barous acts  of  spoliation  and  tyranny  that  ever  disgraced 
the  legislature  of  any  country  in  modern  times.  It  actu- 
ally pillaged  English  authors,  without  warning,  of  their 
colonial  property.  It  had  no  more  right  to  rob  us  of  that 
property  than  to  take  our  coats  off  our  backs  the  moment 
we  land  in  Quebec. 

"Street  houses  are  still  a  gigantic  blunder:  they  are 
built  with  irrational  roofs,  inaccessible  roofs,  combustible 
staircases  on  the  top  floor,  doors  and  windows  square  and 
hideous,  instead  of  arched  and  beautiful,  plaster  ceilings, 
hidden  drains,  stifling  rooms,  deadly  cold  passages,  etc. 
They  are  fire-traps,  dens  of  smoke  and  effluvia;  they  are 
chronic  swindles,  for  they  are  so  built,  piped,  glazed,  and 


Ideal  Journalism.  355 

painted  that  they  must  be  a  constant  expense  to  the  holder, 
and  a  milch  cow  to  the  builder.  Buy  any  other  new  thing, 
and  you  get  rid  of  the  maker;  but  buy  a  new  house,  and 
you  must  be  always  sending  for  him  to  grope  for  his  hidden 
work,  and  patch  his  bad  work,  and  clean  his  abominable 
casements,  and  repaint  God  Almighty's  beautiful  woods, 
to  paint  which  woods  at  all  is  but  to  defile  them.  (See  my 
letters  to  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette.) 

"The  Fine  Arts. — England  is  the  paradise  of  painters. 
They  are  honored  more  than  the  artists  of  the  pen.  They 
are  paid  a  great  deal  more  than  they  are  worth,  measured 
by  European  pictures  and  prices;  but  long  live  these  in- 
sular and  amazing  prices,  for  the  painters  gain  and  the  na- 
tion too.  High  prices  encourage  long  labor  and  produce 
better  pictures  than  low  prices  do;  and  good  pictures  are 
a  national  treasure:  they  cost  the  nation  nothing;  for  the 
purchase  money  stays  at  home,  and  they  will  be  one  day 
exported  to  the  colonies,  and  bring  specie  in,  though  they 
never  took  specie  out. 

"These  artists  have  a  double  market,  the  picture  and 
the  copyright. 

"  They  are  allowed  to  charge  the  public  a  shilling  a  head 
for  entering  their  great  shop,  though  the  public  built  it  for 
them,  and  by  entering  buy  a  hundred  pictures  that  other- 
wise might  not  be  sold  or  not  so  well  sold.  This  is  with- 
out a  parallel  in  Europe, 

"  Music  is  highly  rewarded  in  the  persons  of  many  singers 
and  a  few  fiddlers;  but  the  higher  artist,  the  composer,  is 
vilely  paid.  To  sweeten  his  substantial  wrongs,  he  is  petted 
by  the  women,  including  Her  Gracious  Majesty,  who  knights 
him  promiscuously.  Like  the  dramatist,  his  invention  is 
discouraged  by  the  competition  of  the  stolen  music ;  and 
this  fraud  on  the  foreigner,  and  discouragement  to  the  na- 


366  Memoir  of  Charles  Iteade. 

live  composer,  especially  of  opera,  is  tlie  sure  fruit  of  a 
foul  and  perfidious  clause  England,  to  her  deep  dishonor, 
smuggled  into  the  International  Copyright  Act  of  1851. 
This  piece  of  national  folly,  and  base  treachery,  was  dic- 
tated by  a  playwright  or  two,  who  crawled  up  the  back- 
stairs of  the  House  of  Commons  and  earwigged  the  late 
Lord  Palmerston ;  it  offers  a  premium,  not  only  on  the 
theft,  but  on  the  adulteration  of  foreign  musical  composi- 
tions. Barbarity  added  to  crime!  (See  my  evidence  in 
the  Parliamentary  Commission,  and  my  fruitless  appeal  to 
the  honor  of  the  House  of  Lords — '  The  Eighth  Command- 
ment.') 

"The  fine  art  of  writing  is  not  honored  as  it  deserves, 
and  as  it  is  honored  in  more  refined  nations. 

"  Though  it  is  the  highest  of  all  the  arts,  and  gains  an 
Englishman  the  most  honor  abroad,  it  is  slighted  at  home 
by  Queen,  Lords,  and  Commons,  who,  moreover,  in  this  do 
but  echo  the  brutality  of  the  nation.  Of  all  those  gentle- 
men who  sit  in  the  House  of  Peers,  few  deserve  to  sit  there 
better  than  the  late  Charles  Dickens  did.  Decompose  the 
House,  and  you  resolve  it  into  a  few  truly  noble  names; 
but  the  bulk  is  nothing  of  that  sort:  sons,  or  grandsons,  of 
plebeians  who  rose  to  be  judges  and  peers,  but  rarely  to  be 
jurists;  the  sons,  or  grandsons,  of  commonplace  men,  who 
got  into  the  Commons  by  bribing  small  towns,  and  stick- 
ing to  a  minister  right  or  wrong.  A  few  old  nobles,  de- 
scended from  gallant  soldiers;  others,  like  the  bold  Buc- 
cleuch,  and  the  canny  Cawmil,  descended  from  robbers  and 
murderers  who,  we  know,  deserved  the  roadside  gibbet, 
but  got  their  neighbors'  lands  and  the  peerage  instead. 
Yet  this  miscellaneous  company,  into  which  a  banker  was 
lately  drafted,  simply  and  solely  for  having  a  lot  of  money, 
was  too  divine  an  assemblage  for  Charles  Dickens  to  enterl 


Ideal  Journalism.  357 

He  was  the  greatest  genius  of  the  century,  the  greatest 
benefactor  of  his  country,  the  great  apostle  of  sympathy. 
He  found  classes  glowing  with  antipathy  to  each  other,  and 
infused  a  little  of  his  own  boundless  charity  into  them. 
Twenty  years  before  he  died  the  highest  honors  of  the 
State  were  his  mere  due — yet  they  were  never  offered  him; 
and  the  nation,  whose  darling  he  was,  was  insulted  by  this 
act,  the  child  of  blind  cliquism  and  a  sordid,  narrow,  hog- 
gish, and,  above  all,  snobbish  estimate  of  public  merit  and 
true  glory. 

"  But  this  is  only  a  part  of  a  false  and  porcine  estimate. 
Look  into  the  fine  arts  themselves,  and  you  will  find  they 
are  publicly  honored  here  in  strict  proportion  to  their 
brainlessncss. 

"  The  highest  title  our  backward  Anglo-Saxon  concedes 
to  any  fine  art  is  Knighthood.  Now  music  is  the  one  art 
that  demands  little  or  no  brains;  indeed,  it  is  often  con- 
nected with  downright  and  proverbial  silliness;  so  knight- 
hood is  showered  on  it.  Third-rate  composers  and  second- 
rate  organists — Knighted! 

"To  paint  well,  requires  mind;  so  fewer  good  painters 
are  knighted  than  mediocre  musicians. 

"To  write  poetry,  philosophy,  narrative,  fiction,  dra- 
matic fiction,  immortal  history,  incorruptible  criticism,  re- 
quires a  larger  mind  and  higher  soul  than  to  paint  well; 
so  knighthood  never  comes  at  all  to  those  diviner  arts. 

"  In  other  words,  where  the  fine  arts  are  concerned,  sen- 
suality, and  not  mind,  distributes  the  paltry  honors  of  the 
State,  with  the  discriminating  soul  that  belongs  to  the 
Anglo-Saxon  hog,  young  as  yet  in  this  branch  of  civiliza- 
tion. 

"  A  Republic  has  been  openly  hinted  at  as  sure  to  come 
soon  or  late,  and  The  Times  has  paved  the  way  for  un- 


358  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

prejudiced  discussion  by  printing  a  letter  of  Mr.  Potter's. 
A  few  years  ago  Potter  and  his  editor  would  have  been  in- 
dicted for  sedition. 

"But  the  feeling  of  the  nation  does  not  run  straight 
that  way.  Even  if  it  should,  the  House  of  Brunswick  need 
not  fear;  it  has  its  musicians  and  painters  bound  by  grati- 
tude to  defend  it;  and  so  supported  it  will  not  expect  nor 
need,  when  the  'pinch'  comes,  any  champion  so  mean  and 
feeble  as  the  Pen. 

"  But,  to  tell  the  truth,  our  immediate  danger  is  from 
what  I  call  a  dirty  oligarchy,  i.  e.,  a  set  of  associated 
mechanics,  who  regulate  their  own  numbers  by  terrorism, 
and  so  secure  a  monopoly,  and  then  abuse  that  monopoly. 

"  Mr.  Potter  may  prate  about  a  republic,  but  his  lambs 
are  stiff  oligarchists;  they  are  also  bloody,  crafty,  cowardly, 
remorseless  tyrants,  compared  with  whom  emperors  and 
Caesars  are  just  and  humane,  and  don't  smell. 

"  The  House  of  Commons,  for  obvious  reasons,  defers  to 
this  odoriferous  oligarchy  steeped  in  innocent  blood;  the 
peers  are  asleep  in  re,  or  do  not  comprehend  that  there  can 
be  an  unwashed  oligarchy  as  brutal,  barbarous,  and  dan- 
gerous to  the  nation  as  they  themselves  are  charming,  in- 
offensive, and  clean;  and  so  this  odoriferous  oligarchy  bids 
fair  to  oppress  talent  and  enterprise,  drive  much  productive 
kind  of  capital  out  of  the  country,  and  clip  the  wings  of 
labor  down  to  eight  hours  a  day;  finely,  we  shall  then  com- 
pete in  manufacture  with  nations  working  ten  hours  a  day, 
and  not  too  drunk  to  work  at  all  on  Monday.  Give  the 
second  horse  ten  seconds  start  for  the  Derby;  what  does 
it  matter?  it  is  only  ten  seconds. 

"  This  dirty  oligarchy,  and  not  a  republic,  is  England's 
rock  ahead. 

"  In  matters  international,  nations,  led  by  us,  have  done 


Ideal  Journalism.  ^  359 

a  great  stroke  of  wisdom.  Many  years  ago  we  made  good 
old  Chaucer's  prophecy  without  exactly  intending  it,  and 
,the  world  has  learned  a  great  lesson:  it  sees  that  one  na- 
tion works  best  in  glass,  another  in  silk,  another  in  wood, 
another  in  gold,  another  in  wool  and  iron,  and  so  on;  and 
no  nation  is  superior  in  many  things.  Thus  national  vanity 
— the  silliest  of  all  vanities — is  corrected,  and  talent  inter- 
changed, and  nations  can  easily  profit  by  each  other. 

"  But  a  greater  and  harder  lesson  remains  to  be  taught 
systematically.  The  wisdom  of  the  mind  is  also  distrib- 
uted among  nations  as  equally  as  mechanical  skill:  no  na- 
tion realizes  this;  yet  it  is  so;  and  would  be  seen  in  an 
hour  if  the  wisest  laws  and  the  wisest  customs  of  each  na- 
tion could  only  be  brought  into  one  building,  and  presented 
to  the  senses.  That  unfortunately  cannot  be.  This  im- 
palpable wisdom  can  only  be  shown  on  paper,  and  not 
vividly  like  the  national  products  of  industry.  Yet,  here 
a  periodical  will  I'ise  above  all  books,  and  be  a  small  Crys- 
tal Palace  of  ideas:  if  lovers  of  mankiild  Avill  co-operate 
with  me,  and,  striving  nobly  against  blinding  prejudices, 
will  rise  to  the  occasion,  weigh  the  bits  of  superior  wisdom 
they  have  seen  in  Europe,  Asia,  Africa,  and  America,  and 
bring  them  to  a  focus  in  these  pages.  My  own  reading  in 
this  kind  has  been  long  and  large;  but  no  man's  private 
stores  can  build  so  great  a  work — a  work  which,  if  it  pros- 
pers, will  promote  the  interchange  of  that  wisdom  which 
is  above  rubies;  will  tend  towards  that  world-wide,  blessed 
uniformity  of  laws  in  civilized  nations,  and  that  great,  but, 
alas,  too  distant  good,  the  unity  of  nations. 

"A  few  superior  women  are  pushing  themselves  into 
medicine,  and  have  all  my  sympathy.  Others  are  talking 
well,  but  talking  only,  and  blaming  men  too  much,  women 
too  little.     But  it  is  childish  to  sit  still  and  howl  at  men 


860  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

because  they  are  better  educated.  Are  men  educated  by- 
God  ?  Are  women  educated  by  men  ?  Man  is  a  slightly 
superior  animal,  educated  by  a  slightly  superior  animal. 
Woman  is  a  somewhat  inferior  animal,  educated  by  a 
somewhat  inferior  animal.  This  is  the  double  obstacle  to 
their  competition.  Let  women,  then,  who  are  truly  ambi- 
tious for  their  sex,  leave  baying  the  moon  and  lay  the  first 
stone;  let  them  begin  to  raise  the  young  and  their  sex  by 
rational  education.  At  present  female  education  is  the 
blind  leading  the  blind:  women  forget  that  in  many  es- 
sential things  they  are  savages  compared  with  men,  and 
that  before  they  can  run  on  all  four  legs  in  our  race-course 
they  must  first  walk  with  all  those  four  legs  into  the  pale 
of  civilization,  as  we  have. 

"  To  touch  on  those  narrower  subjects  which  may  be 
expected  of  me: 

"  I  find  that  Literature,  directly  or  indirectly,  owes  its 
sad  degradation  in  England  to  an  excess  of  anonymous 
writing;  one  branch  is  directly  degraded  by  it,  and  from 
a  great  height.  I  mean  the  branch  which  is  blasphemously 
miscalled  '  criticism.'  I  find  that  anonymous  criticasters 
are  often  corruptible  and  scarcely  ever  scientific  in  their 
judgments.  There  is  scarcely  a  writer  in  the  island  whose 
name  signed  at  the  bottom  of  his  critique  would  not  rather 
weaken  than  strengthen  its  authority;  and  this  is  a  terri- 
ble phenomenon  in  any  art  or  science.  It  arises  partly 
from  the  want  of  scientific  principles,  and  still  more  from 
the  excess  of  the  anonymous.  In  France  this  deplorable 
phenomenon  does  not  exist.  The  anonymous  criticaster 
is  deprived  of  those  two  great  guides,  without  which  no 
class  of  men  ever  yet  went  straight — reward  and  punish- 
ment :  he  is  neither  punished  for  dishonesty  and  blunders, 
nor  rewarded  for  purity  and  infallibility.     The  result  is 


Ideal  Journalism.  861 

inevitable,  since  all  classes  of  men  are  what  circumstances 
make  them.  We  have  a  shoal  of  criticasters  with  little 
moral  and  no  intellectual  principle ;  they  admire  in  the 
dead  what  they  dispraise  in  the  living ;  admire  in  a 
Frenchman  what  they  dispraise  in  an  Englishman  ;  ap- 
prove in  their  friends  what  they  condemn  in  their  ene- 
mies ;  labor  to  say  smart  things,  but  not  to  say  true 
things ;  and  are  as  often  wrong  as  right  in  their  judgment 
of  any  new  work.  This  need  not  be.  Literary  judgments 
might  be  as  pure  and  as  accurate  as  the  decisions  of  the 
judges  in  our  courts  at  Westminster.  But  this  will  never 
be  until  a  few  able  literary  judges  sit  habitually  in  day- 
light, like  the  judges  at  Westminster;  and,  like  those 
judges,  cultivate  accuracy,  apply  precedents  fairly  to  new- 
born works,  and  go  by  evidence,  not  conjecture. 

"  Criticism  is  a  science  that  does  not  exist  in  esse,  but  it 
does  exist  in  posse;  and  I  propose  to  lay  the  first  stone  of 
that  science  in  these  pages. 

"  The  feats  of  that  science,  which  at  present  only  exists 
in  fitful  flashes,  are  not  eloquent  phrases,  nor  flippant 
sneers,  nor  even  witty  periods,  but  judgments  on  new-born 
works,  which  judgments  time  confirms. 

"  International  copyright  is  just  and  needed  to  raise  the 
literary  character.  Any  class  to  be  respectable  must  be 
well-to-do.  No  class,  except  ministers  of  religion,  can  be 
poor  and  noble.  A  class  without  property  is  a  tribe  of 
Bohemians.  Copyright  is  the  authors'  property;  it  gives 
them  a  stake  in  the  country;  and  international  copyright 
gives  them  a  stake  in  other  countries,  and  interests  them 
in  keeping  the  peace.  Now  anonymous  writers  in  this 
respect  have  an  interest  opposed  to  that  of  mankind.  They 
are  always  tempted  to  set  nations  by  the  ears,  because  they 
are  propertyless  Bohemians  and  penmen  who  fatten  on  war. 
16 


362  Memoir  of  Chwrlea  Meade. 

"  I  shall  fight  tooth  and  nail  for  international  copyright 
and  stage-right,  and  under  these  heads  correct  the  strange 
delusions  of  English  legislators  and  the  English  public. 

"  This  little  enumeration  of  things  that  might  be  better 
will,  I  hope,  excuse  me  for  intruding  a  new  periodical  into 
so  great  a  crowd. 

"  However,  I  shall  not  be  too  hard  on  the  public,  nor 
Tun  by  excess  of  public  virtue  into  the  Bankruptcy  Court. 
I  know  the  public  taste ;  it  is  for  exciting  and  amusing 
lies,  not  for  truth,  justice,  and  European  wisdom.  Well, 
let  us  compound.  I  will  give  you  a  reasonable  dose  of 
lies  ;  only  when  you  have  drunk  them  with  the  eagerness 
they  do  not  deserve,  come,  pray,  sip  the  nobler  elixir  that 
is  to  do  you  good." 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

WISDOM   AND   FOLLY. 

"  Put  Yourself  in  His  Place  "  was  Charles  Reade's  last 
gi'eat  novel.  Already  he  had  wearied  of  dramatic  narra- 
tion, and  his  whole  mind  seemed  focussed  on  the  theatre. 
His  dramas  were  being  played  with  varying  success  in  the 
provinces — mostly  at  his  OAvn  risk;  and  the  excitement  of 
theatrical  speculation  seemed  to  possess  a  fatal  fascination 
for  him. 

It  happened,  however,  that  Messrs.  Cassell  required  a 
serial  for  their  magazine,  and  the  terms  they  offered  at- 
tracted him.  At  the  moment  their  editorial  department 
was  being  supervised  by  the  Rev.  Teignmouth  Shore, 
since  then  one  of  the  Queen's  chaplains,  and  Mr.  John 
Williams,  a  former  scholar  of  Trinity  College,  Oxford, 
and  a  first-class  man.  The  Fellow  of  Magdalen  was  much 
gratified  to  find  the  literary  management  of  a  great  firm 
in  such  capable  and  appreciative  hands;  and  so  highly  did 
he  esteem  Mr.  Teignmouth  Shore  that  he  preserved  a  com- 
plimentary letter  of  that  gentleman,  whereunto  he  append- 
ed the  following  remarks: 

"Rev.  T.  Shore.  Editor  of  Cassell's,  1871.  This  truly 
amiable  and  intelligent  gentleman  is  Cassell's  head  editor 
at  a  liberal  salary;  and  I  believe  the  firm  has  never  regret- 
ted the  unusual  step  of  making  a  gentleman  controller  of 
their  business.  Certainly  under  his  rule  the  firm  has  made 
great  advances." 


364  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

That  any  novel-writer  should  have  hit  on  such  a  theme 
as  that  which  forms  the  backbone  of  "  A  Terrible  Temp- 
tation," and  have  utilized  for  its  development  the  columns 
of  a  magazine  supposed  to  be  largely  supported  by  the 
simple  puritanism  of  England — this  indeed  beggars  be- 
lief. Yet  so  it  was;  and  the  author  himself  seems  to 
have  been  at  the  outset  dubious  of  so  perverse  an  experi- 
ment. 

Under  date  Monday,  October  30th,  1870,  he  writes  :  "I 
have  lately  signed  with  Cassell,  and  am  languidly  working 
on  a  weekly  serial.  Have  written  one  number.  Rather 
smart,  I  think,  but  also  rather  loose.  I  fear  it  will  offend 
the  mothers  of  families.  Indeed,  query  will  Cassell  pub- 
lish it? 

"Yet,  is  it  really  wrong  to  tell  the  truth  soberly? — viz.: 
that  young  men  of  fortune  have  all  mistresses ;  and  that 
these  are  not  romantic  creatures,  but  only  low,  unculti- 
vated women  bedizened  in  fashionable  clothes  ?" 

The  book  has  a  value  of  its  own,  in  that  it  gives  the 
portrait  of  the  author  painted  by  his  own  hand,  and  by 
no  means  in  flattering  colors ;  also,  a  descriptive  account 
of  the  same  author's  sanctum,  together  with  a  close  analy- 
sis of  his  method  of  working.  The  above  extract  from 
his  diary  shows  that  in  intention  he  was  far  from  being 
sinister ;  nevertheless,  littera  scripta  manet,  and  he  puts  a 
powerful  handle  into  the  grasp  of  his  enemies,  while  his 
friends  were  taken  aback.  It  was  hoped  that  the  man 
whose  life  had  been  threatened  by  the  Sheffield  ratteners  ; 
the  author  whose  grip  of  social  problems  was  as  firm  as 
that  of  a  Roebuck  or  a  John  Bright,  might  have  taken  his 
place  among  the  practical  social  reformers  of  a  reforming 
age.  A  great  statesman  was  reported  to  have  thrown  down 
the  book  with  the  angry  criticism  :  "  He  has  wrecked  a 


'Wisdom  and  Folly.  365 

reputation."  The  firm  of  Cassell,  Petter,  &  Gal  pin  felt 
chagrined,  and  said  as  much.  The  wolves  and  jackals  of 
the  press  fell  upon  him  with  ferocity.  He  rewrote,  under 
pressure,  a  portion  of  the  serial  while  yet  it  was  running 
through  the  pages  of  Cassell's  magazine.  Love,  reverence, 
gratitude  cannot  induce  us  to  offer  a  fuller  apology  for 
this,  the  one  real  blunder  of  the  author's  beneficent  career, 
than  that  which  is  implied  in  his  own  words — he  meant  well. 

He  suffered  for  his  indiscretion,  moreover,  in  pocket  as 
well  as  otherwise.     These  are  his  reflections  : 

"  A  successful  author !  My  story,  '  A  Terrible  Tempta- 
tion,' declined  by  all  the  publishers  I  offered  it  to.  Smith, 
with  compliments,  says  he  is  afraid  to  publish  it. 

"  Chapman,  who  was  hot  on  it,  now  says  nothing.  He, 
or  his  wife,  have  read  it. 

"I  foresee  that  the  librarians  will  all  band  against  it, 
as  usual ;  and  at  fifty-seven  years  of  age,  plenty  of  hot 
water  coming.  Well,  it  is  one  more  fight ;  that  is  all,  for 
fight  I  must,  or  be  crushed  entirely.  And  this  is  what 
they  call  a  lucky  writer !" 

The  next  sentence,  and  those  following,  betray  symp- 
toms of  penitence  : 

•'  Letter  to  Coleridge,  Solicitor-General,  reminding  him 
of  the  promise  I  made  to  expunge  an  intemperate  passage 
in  '  It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend,'  and  sending  liim  copy 
of  the  amended  book. 

"I  have  actually  forgotten  whether  this,  or  July  16th, 
was  dear  Julia's  birthday.  Ah,  sweet  saint !  I  hope  you 
don't  see  me,  my  follies  and — !  Here  is  a  horrible  wish ; 
80  much  for  not  being  a  Christian. 

"  I  am  depressed  by  my  inability  to  find  a  subject  that 
interests  me  to  write  on." 

Our  American  cousins,  whose  propriety  had  been  shocked 


366  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

by  "  Griffith  Gaunt,"  went  simply  frantic  over  "  A  Terri- 
ble Tempation."  Across  the  Atlantic  they  have  a  habit 
of  styling  a  spade  a  powerful! y-epitheted  agricultural  im- 
plement, and  Charles  Reade  was  by  no  means  let  down 
gently.  He  got  his  deserts,  and  something  also  by  way 
of  compound  interest.  For  example,  the  Philadelphia 
Telegraph  declared  "that  *A  Terrible  Temptation'  was 
written  in  Mr.  Reade's  most  slang-whanging  style."  The 
New  York  Sun  called  it  "a  piece  of  carrion  literature, 
whose  putrescence  attracted  the  keen  scent  of  the  publish- 
ers, and  whose  sickening  odors,  thanks  to  their  enterprise, 
now  pervades  the  land."  The  Utica  Morning  Herald  be- 
gan by  dubbing  Charles  Reade  "  King  among  all  living 
novelists,"  and  proceeded  promptly  to  preach  revolution 
on  the  ground  that  the  king  had  erred.  Nevertheless,  it 
cannot  bring  itself  to  be  totally  disloyal.  "  The  book," 
it  avers,  "  is  none  the  less  great  because  it  is  so  contempt- 
ibly indecent."  That,  after  all,  if  plain  speaking,  cannot 
be  dismissed  as  mere  malediction.  It  gives  the  author  his 
meed  both  of  praise  and  blame.  The  Neio  York  Tribune, 
of  all  transatlantic  journals  the  least  censorious,  summed 
up  our  author  thus :  "  His  flashing  satire  reminds  one 
more  of  the  subtle  deadliness  of  an  Italian  stiletto  than  of 
the  crushing  blows  of  the  Oriental  scimitar."  Poetical — 
very. 

We  forbear  to  linger  over  this  unfortunate  book.  To 
this  hour,  those  authors  of  lesser  light  who  experienced 
the  motions  of  the  green-eyed  monster  because  of  Charles 
Reade's  command  over  fortune  are  able  to  point  to  it  as 
to  an  ugly  blot  on  a  fair  picture.  The  people  who  indite, 
what  an  eminent  publisher  styles  with  cruel  acerbity,  the 
pork-chop  variety  of  literature,  are  able  to  console  them- 
Belves  with  the  thought  that,  after  all,  Charles  Reade  once 


Wisdom  and  Folly.  36 Y 

dropped  somewhere  near  to  their  normal  level.  Enough 
that,  commercially,  it  was  the  least  profitable  of  all  his 
works.  This  is  his  own  confession:  "Yesterday  I  treated 
with  Chapman  &  Hall  for  '  A  Terrible  Temptation.'  He 
gives  me  £600  for  a  3  vol.  edition  of  1500  copies.  Should 
this  be  exhausted,  fresh  arrangements  to  be  made.  This  is 
a  pitiable  decline  on  former  sales.  He  gave  me  £1500  for 
limited  copyright  of  '  Griffith  Gaunt.'  Bradbury  &  Evans 
gave  me  £2000  for  ditto  of  *  Foul  Play.'  The  serial  in  its 
first  form  will  soon  be  the  only  considerable  market  open 
to  me." 

His  next  novel,  "  A  Simpleton,"  appeared  in  serial  form 
per  London  Society,  at  that  time  edited  by  one  of  the  most 
fascinating  of  lady  novelists,  Florence  Marryat.  The  title 
was  unattractive  ;  and  the  author,  having  finally  discarded 
youthful  irregularity  as  a  source  of  dramatic  interest,  fell 
back  on  one  among  his  many  crotchets.  It  requires  genius 
to  invest  anything  so  essentially  pragmatical  with  charm, 
and.  this  much  Charles  Reade  did. 

The  book  owed  not  a  little  to  the  practical  talent  and 
suggestive  brain  of  Mrs.  Seymour.  She  had  already,  and 
was  partly  conscious  of  it,  the  seeds  of  an  internal  com- 
plaint, destined  in  the  course  of  a  very  few  years  to  shorten 
her  life,  and  was  inclined  to  attribute  it  to  the  evil  effects 
of  tight-lacing.  Here  we  have  a  cue  to  one  of  the  lead- 
ing features  of  the  story.  Others  will  be  easily  surmised 
from  the  subjoined  letters  addressed  to  her  from  Mag- 
dalen : 

"  It  was  quite  a  grand  wedding"  (of  his  niece)  "and  went 
off  very  fairly.  The  women,  unfortunately,  were  divided 
into  two  classes — the  idiotic  gigglers,  the  dead  silent.  A 
fine  day,  and  I  drank  my  beautiful  native  air ;  slept  at  Ips- 
den  one  night. 


368  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

"At  10.80  drove  to  Goring  station — waited  half  an 
hour. 

"Train  to  Didcot  fifteen  minutes. 

"  At  Didcot  waited  an  hour  and  a  half. 

"  Train  to  Oxford  half  an  hour. 

"  Reached  here  on  a  dismal,  discouraging,  wet  afternoon. 

"Fire  in  small  room,  which  stinks  of  paint  still,  so 
lighted  one  in  north  room.  Shall  go  to  work  at  once,  so 
pray  send  me  some  little  material,  no  matter  how  rough, 
every  day. 

"  Jot  it  down. 

"  Fling  it  on  paper. 

"  Scenes. 

"  Observations. 

"  Single  lines. 

"  Make  a  heading  *  Rosiana,'  of  detached  simple  things 
for  her  to  say  or  do. 

"  Oh  dear  !  I  feel  ratlier  old  to  have  to  work  so  hard  !" 

Again : 

"Thanks  for  hint.  The  ladies, enthusiastic  school-fel- 
lows, shall  quarrel  in  the  auction-room,  and  part  forever. 

"  But  can  you  not  remember  any  little  bit  of  color  you 
have  seen  or  heard  in  auction-rooms — any  bit  of  Jew's  chaff 
— any  incident  ? 

"  If  so,  send  it  by  return,  or  it  will  be  too  late,  for  I  shall 
have  passed  through  that  topic,  and  got  to  servants  and 
dress. 

"  I  feel  miserable  at  having  to  write  about  these  things, 
yet  I  know  I  must.  Now  or  never,  I  must  give  a  picture 
of  the  inexperienced  householder's  troubles  —  e.  g.,  house- 
agent's  lies,  repairs,  inaccessible  roof,  tile  loose — man  goes 
up  and  makes  two  holes  for  the  plumber.  Chimney- 
sweeper takes  away  the  lead  and  charges  1«.  6<?.    Mention 


Wisdom  and  Folly.  369 

the  pipes.  The  passing  workman  knocks  the  pipes  to- 
gether. Every  workman  had  in  to  repair  begins  by  de- 
stroying, and  then  goes  away  and  can't  be  got." 

Ever  since  the  Sheffield  ratteners  thought  fit  to  honor 
him  with  a  murderous  menace,  his  dislike  and  distrust  of 
the  British  workman  became  more  and  more  rooted.  In- 
dividual artisans,  who  happened  to  be  in  distress,  partook 
of  his  bounty,  but  he  vastly  preferred  to  give  to  other 
classes.  He  believed  in  their  dishonesty ;  and  on  one 
occasion  when  something  had  gone  wrong  with  one  of  his 
London  houses,  wrote  to  Mrs.  Seymour,  "  The  fact  is,  you 
and  I  are  much  alike.  We  are  a  couple  of  wise  fools. 
Very  fit  to  guide  each  other,  but  not  able  to  take  care  of 
No.  1,  though  I,  for  my  part,  have  all  the  inclination." 

There  he  wronged  Mrs.  Seymour.  No  daughter  of  Eve 
was  more  shrewd  and  calculating.  None  less  capable  of 
disbursing  a  shilling  in  mistake  for  elevenpence. 

As  for  the  honest  proletarian,  he  did  his  little  best  to 
perpetuate  the  author's  prejudice.  When  Charles  Reade 
was  dying,  and  doted,  with  the  fondness  of  a  broken  heart, 
on  his  pets,  some  pretty  Belgian  hares,  a  blackguard,  im- 
ported to  do  repairs  —  because,  forsooth,  his  employer  re- 
fused to  submit  to  gross  extortion  —  had  the  heartless  bar- 
barity to  leave  the  garden-door  open;  and  the  author's  fa^ 
vorite  hare  strayed  into  the  streets  to  fall  a  victim,  very 
possibly,  to  this  identical  ruffian.  One  can  but  regret  that 
a  myriad-handed  class,  eminent  for  such  virtues  as  industry 
and  truthfulness,  should  be  traduced  by  its  exceptions. 
The  warmest  friend  of  labor  failed  to  convince  Charles 
Reade  that  the  samples  he  had  encountered  were  other- 
wise than  represe«itative  and  typical. 

"A  Simpleton  "  had  so  fairly  exhausted  its  creator  that 
Mrs.  Seymour  despaired  of  his  attempting  another  novel. 
16* 


870  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

He  found  himself  by  no  means  reviled,  but  dismissed  with 
a  good-tempered  laugh.  This  was  little  to  his  taste.  His 
precedent  works  had  received  such  an  amount  of  attention 
as  was  in  itself  a  tribute  to  their  calibre.  He  flung  down 
his  pen. 

Mrs.  Seymour  held  her  peace,  waited  till  the  mood 
passed;  but  was  none  the  less  surprised  to  perceive  how 
unready  the  pen  of  the  ready  writer  had  become.  With 
admirable  tact  she  let  well  alone  for  the  nonce.  He  had 
other  fish  to  fry — to  wit,  various  minor  theatrical  ventures 
in  London  and  the  provinces,  such  as  "  Shilly-shally "  * 
and  "The  Double  Marriage,"  produced  at  the  Queen's 
Theatre  —  not  to  omit  "  The  Wandering  Heir "  in  its 
dramatized  form;  as  a  story  it  appeared  in  The  Graphic, 
as  he  puts  it,  "  with  no  great  effect,"  a  verdict  Mr.  Locker 
would  probably  hesitate  to  endorse.  For  this  latter  piece 
he  engaged  the  services  of  no  less  an  artist  than  Miss 
Ellen  Terry,  in  succession  to  Mrs.  John  Wood,  who  made 
the  character  of  Philippa.     It  will  be  remembered  that  Mr. 

•This  drama  led  to  a  very  regrettable  dispute  between  friends  and  liter- 
ary comrades.  It  was  an  adaptation  from  Anthony  Trollope's  clever  story, 
"  Ralph  the  Heir " ;  and  its  author  being  at  the  time  in  Australia,  the 
adapter  took  his  consent  as  a  matter  of  course,  intending  to  offer  him  half- 
profits  in  the  theatrical  venture.  Mr.  Trollope,  however,  fired  up  at  his 
friend's  French-leave,  and  delivered  himself  ia  a  tone  of  acerbity.  Charles 
Reade  apologized,  and  there  the  incident  should  have  ended.  Unfortunate- 
ly the  piece  proved  a  failure,  and  this  confirmed  the  unflattering  view  Mr. 
Trollope  always  entertained  of  Charles  Reade's  capacity ;  while  the  other, 
stung  by  what  he  regarded  as  Trollope's  ingratitude,  delivered  himself  of 
some  sneering  epithets — of  which,  perhaps,  "  mediocre  "  was  the  most  of- 
fensive. Yet  in  private  life  each  author  spoke  fraternally  of  the  other, 
and  this  although  neither  appreciated  the  other's  handiwork.  Certainly 
Mr.  Trollope,  when  not  in  a  splenetic  vein,  could  say  some  very  kind  and 
generous  things  of  Charles  Reade. 


Wisdom  and  Folly.  371 

George  Annesley,  his  brother  Compton's  partner  for  many 
years,  represented  Charles  Reado  when  he  championed  M. 
Maquet.  Moreover,  a  branch  of  the  Annesley  family  is 
located  in  Oxfordshire,  so  that  the  author  was  dealing  with 
a  theme  in  every  way  congenial  when  he  seized  on  the 
famous  Annesley  romance.  From  what  we  can  glean,  he 
expected  that  it  would  eclipse  the  Tichborne  case,  then 
dragging  its  weary  length  through  the  courts. 

At  last  the  moment  arrived  when,  for  the  first  time  during 
a  space  of  twenty  years,  the  successful  author  resembled 
the  frozen-out  workman  in  actually  having  no  work  to  do. 

"  You  want  a  suggestion,"  said  Mrs.  Seymour,  "  some- 
thing to  spur  you." 

lie  yawned.  He  wanted  nothing  of  the  kind.  Yet  he 
abhorred  idleness.  Nulla  dies  sine  lined,  he  had  already 
dubbed  "  the  eleventh  commandment." 

At  last  the  suggestion  came,  ab  extra,  and  much  more 
than  mere  suggestion.  He  opened  up,  in  consequence,  a 
negotiation,  through  the  writer,  with  Messrs.  Tillotson,  for 
a  new  novel,  on  the  theme  misogynism;  but  this  came  to 
nothing,  and  the  book  eventually  appeared — for  reasons 
which  need  not  be  stated  specifically;  suflSce  it  that  they 
were  never  revealed,  even  to  Messrs.  Blackwood — anony- 
mously in  the  columns  of  Blackwood'' s  Magazine.  There 
was,  however,  no  mistaking  the  wand  of  the  magician. 
Critics,  readers,  even  those  who  skim  and  skip,  all  agreed 
that  "  The  Woman-Hater  "  must  be  Charles  Reade's  hand- 
iwork. The  characters,  and  the  working  of  the  first  vol- 
ume, may  have  seemed  dissimilar  to  any  he  had  previously 
produced.  The  plot,  also,  might  have  been  termed  a  new 
departure.  But  the  character  of  Rhoda  Gale,  M.D.,  was 
obviously,  unmistakably  his  —  no  other  band  could  have 
conceived  or  drawn  it. 


919  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

At  last,  when  the  book  appeared  in  vohime  form,  the  sur- 
mise of  a  friendly  public  was  verified,  and  "The  Woman- 
Hater  "  bears  the  name  of  Charles  Reade. 

Oddly  enough,  the  lady-doctor,  which  may  be  said  to 
have  given  the  hall-mark  to  the  book,  was  the  one  feat- 
ure that  exposed  it  to  censure.  The  first  volume  ran  so 
smoothly  and  dramatically,  the  interest  aroused  was  so  in- 
tense, that  the  break  caused  by  the  insertion  of  this  prag- 
matical character  could  but  be  viewed  with  disfavor.  It 
seemed  to  give  the  narrative  an  ugly  twist  and  disturb  its 
threads.  For  all  that,  the  book  pleased  the  general  reader. 
It  dealt  with  character  and  incident,  and  erred  neither  in 
respect  of  sensationalism  nor  eroticism.  Ina  and  Zoe  were 
both  eulogized,  notably  in  his  exhaustive  criticism  by  Mr. 
Walter  Besant. 

Nevertheless  Charles  Reade  was  dissatisfied.  "I  will 
write  no  more  '  Woman-IIaters,' "  he  remarks  in  his  diary, 
"for  the  jenny-asses  of  this  nation  to  refuse  to  read." 

It  was  while  he  was  engaged  on  this  book  that  he  took 
up  the  cudgels  on  behalf  of  a  certain  James  Lambert — a 
hero  and  a  martyr,  as  he  elected  to  crown  him.  Across 
the  Tweed  there  was  no  small  scepticism  as  to  the  hero- 
ism or  martyrdom  of  Lambert.  The  Scotch  uphold  every- 
thing national,  from  thistles  to  haggis,  as  being  most  su- 
perior; but  they  are  as  hard-headed  as  clannish,  and  by  no 
means  relish  being  found  fault  with.  Now  the  charge 
preferred  against  Caledonia  stem  and  wild,  and  Glasgow 
in  particular,  was  one  of  crass  indifference  to  the  very 
qualities  a  Scotchman  holds  most  in  honor.  The  Scotch 
excel  in  bravery  and  endurance,  the  leading  characteris- 
tics of  heroes  and  martyrs.  Hence,  when  a  Southron 
pulled  them  up  short,  they  felt  affronted. 

There  were,  however,  exceptions.     A  priest  of  the  Ro- 


Wisdom  and  Foley.  373 

man  obedience  in  Scotland  sent  Charles  Reade  a  mite,  and 
with  it  so  genial  a  letter  as  to  have  been  deemed  by  its 
recipient  worthy  a  corner  of  his  guard-book.  Other  per- 
fervid  Scots  followed  suit,  while  in  England  the  story  of 
Lambert,  as  narrated  in  the  columns  of  the  Pall  3Iall 
Gazette,  tapped  the  ever-ready  purse  of  our  kindly  public. 
It  was  remarkable  that  his  own  countrymen  took  Charles 
Reade  on  trust,  whereas  the  blue-bonnets  across  the  bor- 
der discounted  him  heavily. 

Up  till  then  no  one  had  suspected  the  novelist  of  genu- 
ine philanthropy.  It  was  presupposed  that,  when  he  cham- 
pioned prisoners,  lunatics,  and  honest  workmen,  he  merely 
utilized,  with  utter  insincerity,  these  social  elements  for 
the  purpose  of  agony-piling.  Nay,  more,  he  was  accused 
broadly  of  wilfully  exaggerating,  of  adding  carmine  to 
human  blood,  of  doubling  the  horror  of  death  itself.  The 
world  had  yet  to  learn  how  cruelly  it  misjudged  a  vivid 
and  picturesque  mind — a  mind  which  never  saw  as  others, 
and  could  only  express  its  thoughts  in  harmony  with  its 
own  very  acute  emotions.  This  story  of  Lambert  may  have 
been  in  fact  —  though  certainly  never  in  intention — col- 
ored, but  if  so,  it  was  by  a  generous  and  magnanimous 
pen.  It  affected  its  readers  very  much  after  the  fashion 
of  the  prison-scenes  in  "  Sera  Nunquam  y"  indeed,  as  an 
illustration  of  that,  we  may  cite  a  letter  from  Sir  Arthur 
Helps,  begging  the  editor  of  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  to  for- 
ward at  once  a  copy  of  the  paper  to  be  shown  to  the 
queen. 

So  much  of  the  ground  of  the  biographer  is  already  oc- 
cupied by  the  various  collection,  published  under  the  ge- 
neric title  "  Readiana,"  that  we  can  only  notice  in  brief 
some  among  his  more  striking  letters  and  essays. 

In  the  Daily  Telegraph  he  broached  a  theory  of  ambi- 


S74  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

dexterity.  On  all  sound  physiological  principles  he  was 
totally  in  error,  nevertheless  no  advocatus  dlaholi  in  the 
Middle  Ages  ever  defended  a  sophism  with  such  consum- 
mate skill.  Miss  Braddon,  Mrs.  John  Maxwell,  wrote  him 
a  letter  with  her  left  hand  by  way  of  experiment,  and  it 
is  legible.  One  swallow,  however,  does  not  make  a  sum- 
mer, and,  after  all,  few  of  her  sex  can  boast  the  rare  versa- 
tility of  "  Lady  Audley."  The  rest  of  the  Avorld  did  not 
so  much  as  essay  to  impose  on  the  left  the  functions  of  the 
right  hand. 

In  the  same  journal  Charles  Reade  took  up  the  cudgels 
on  behalf  of  four  condemned  persons.  Here  his  zeal  for 
abstract  justice  caused  him  to  exhibit  an  almost  painful 
oblivion  as  to  the  hideous  moral  obliquity — apart  from 
criminality — of  the  parties  whose  advocate  he  voluntarily 
constituted  himself.  Justice,  however,  was  his  grand  pas- 
sion. He  seems  to  have  declined  mentally  to  discuss  the 
question  of  innocence  or  guilt,  and  to  have  adhered  dog- 
gedly to  the  point  he  raised,  viz.,  that  the  miserable  quar- 
tette were  illegally  condemned.  His  letters  were  of  the 
sort  that  could  not  be  gainsaid.  Before  their  appear- 
ance it  was  publicly  stated  that  the  law  would  take  its 
course — albeit  strenuous  efforts  were  being  made  on  behalf 
of  the  girl,  who  might  have  been  termed  the  causa  causans 
of  all  the  wrong.  Within  four  hours  of  the  appearance 
of  Charles  Reade's  final  letter,  bearing  the  title  "  Hang  in 
haste,  repent  at  leisure,"  the  noose  was  cut,  all  four  pris- 
oners were  respited,  and — rightly  or  wrongly — not  one 
was  hanged. 

Charles  Reade's  analysis  of  the  Tichborne  cause  celtbre 
was  contributed  to  an  ephemeral  paper  styled  Fact.  It 
served  to  clear  away  the  cobwebs  spun  with  persistence 
rather  than  ability  by  Dr.  Kenealy.    Both  this  and  the 


Wisdxmh  and  Folly.  375 

brief  he  wrote  for  the  Stauntons  would  seem  to  demon- 
strate a  capacity  for  law  as  well  as  for  litigation.  He 
might  have  sat  on  the  judicial  bench  had  he  devoted  his 
energies  to  his  profession.  Is  it,  however,  a  matter  for 
regret?  Let  his  country  decide.  We  should  have  lost 
"Triplet,"  "Susan  Merton,"  "Christie  Johnstone,"  "Mar- 
garet of  Sevenbergen,"  "  Gerard,"  "  Ina  and  Zoe,"  "  Cou- 
peau  and  Tom  Robinson."  We  should  not  have  gained, 
for  the  law,  a  Lush,  still  less  a  Cockburn.  Better  as  it 
was. 

We  have  seen  how,  with  a  design  of  exploiting  the 
many  original  ideas  wherewith  his  brain  teemed,  he  at 
one  time  thought  of  speculating  in  a  magazine.  This  idea 
abandoned,  he  varied  its  form  and  expanded  it  on  differ- 
ent lines,  preserving,  however,  its  original  essence.  Ho 
proposed  to  himself  to  adopt,  as  a  vehicle  for  his  great 
thoughts,  some  journal  with  a  colossal  circulation,  having 
in  his  eye,  probably,  that  one  which  was  readiest  always 
to  give  him  a  place. 

"The  plan  I  propose,"  he  writes  on  Jan.  1,  1878,  "is, 
to  make  the  most  of  my  interest — a  journal;  to  make  and 
shake  the  nation,  and  make  it  write  to  me;  for  I  have  dis- 
covered that  the  only  creature  who  knows  inueh  and  vari- 
ous things  is  the  public. 

"I  open  the  year  with  these  designs,  but  none  of  that 
certainty  I  shall  accomplish  any  one  of  them  which  marks 
our  sanguine  youth.  My  contemporaries,  and  even  my 
juniors,  fall  daily  around,  and  I  observe  that  nobody  calls 
their  deaths  untimely.  I  therefore  am  due.  That  is  clear, 
and  mtCR  summa  brevis  spem  nos  vetat  inchoare  longam. 
But  then,  as  I  don't  know  the  hour  of  my  death,  why  should 
I  lie  down  and  wait  for  death's  chariot  to  roll  over  me  ? 
The  time  is  certainly  come  when  I  ought  not  to  write  fool- 


376  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

ish  or  wicked  or  frivolous  things  for  the  public;  but  should 
I  die  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  warning  the  good  not  to 
be  uncharitable,  the  wicked  not  to  despair,  then,  meth inks, 
I  should  die  well — better  perhaps  than  if  I  died  repeating 
prayers  like  a  parrot  in  St.  Paul's  Church. 
"  My  first  topic  will  be,  I  think, 

"  Thb  Dakk  Places  of  the  Land. 

"('  Tlu  dark  placet  of  the  land  are  full  of  cruelty.'' — Ps.  xx.) 

"  And  if  that  does  not  sicken, 

"  The  Wisdom  and  Folly  of  Nations." 

Of  these  essays,  the  former  appears  in  "Readiana;"  the 
latter  we  append,  inasmuch  as  it  amplifies  the  author's 
project  as  formulated  in  brief  above. 

"THE  WISDOM  AND  FOLLY  OF  NATIONS. 

"Men  overrate  themselves  and  everything  connected 
with  them.  For  centuries  human  astronomers  overrated 
the  globe.  They  knew  it  for  a  second-rate  planet,  and  a 
puny  orb  compared  with  the  sun;  yet  they  assumed  it  to 
be  the  centre  of  our  planetary  system ;  why  ?  because 
they  were  bom  on  it.  That  form  of  egotism  is  cured,  but 
not  the  disease  itself.  Men  still  overrate  one  part  of  this 
overrated  planet;  they  think  one  small  section  of  the  earth 
excels  all  others  in  wisdom  and  virtue.  The  proof?  I, 
the  great  I,  was  born  upon  it.  This  is  sham  patriotism, 
real  egotism,  and  injurious  folly,  for  it  closes  the  greatest 
gate  of  mundane  improvement,  and  makes  frontiers  a 
limit  to  the  mind.  Whoever  travels  much,  reads  much, 
and  loves  truth  more  than  vanity,  shall  find  that  every 
nation  is  wise  and  foolish,  has  much  to  teach,  and  much 
to  learn.    Probably  these  letters  will  evoke  a  thousand 


Wisdom  and  Folly.  311 

examples  of  this  wholesome  truth.  Meantime  accept  a 
poor  specimen  by  way  of  mere  preliminary.  China  teach- 
es Europe  to  economize  labor  in  one  way;  she  constructs 
high  water-wheels  with  concave  stejis.  These,  let  down 
into  a  running  stream,  raise  the  water,  and  discharge  it 
from  the  highest  steps  down  an  incline,  and  so  imgate  the 
meadow.  Macartney  made  this  known  in  Europe.  France 
uses  it.  This  same  China  has  the  wit  to  see  that  the  re- 
spectable trader  who  sells  bad  meat  is  a  felon.  But  this 
same  China  puts  written  prayers  into  a  wheel  and  turns 
them  for  the  good  of  the  soul,  and  proclaims  in  shop  win- 
dows, '  Gods  made  and  mended.' 

"The  French  have  always,  in  my  day,  been  socially 
wise,  but  politically  unwise.  They  extract  much  innocent 
pleasure  from  every -day  life;  but  they  are  too  prone  to 
hope,  from  experiments  in  government,  that  amelioration 
of  man's  lot  which  can  only  come  from  the  popular  exer- 
cise of  private  industry,  self-denial,  and  other  virtues. 

'  How  small  of  all  the  ills  that  men  endure 
The  part  that  kings  or  laws  can  make  or  cure.' 

This  people  invented  pisciculture,  which  was  wise,  and  has 
massacred  the  small  birds;  and  that  is  foolish. 

"  The  Prussians  were  the  first  to  protect  children  against 
selfish  parents,  by  compulsory  education,  and  to  disregard 
all  the  outcry  against  it:  this  same  wise  people  goes  on, 
century  after  century,  printing  with  obscure  letters  which 
the  superior  wisdom  of  Venice  swept  away  soon  after  the 
invention  of  printing;  and  all  unprejudiced  nations  have 
followed  Venetian  wisdom. 

"The  Turks  have  long  seen  that  a  man  who  sells  un- 
wholesome food  is  a  felon,  and  not  a  civil  offender,  as  we 
in  our  folly  imagine.  But  these  sensible  Turks  practise 
polygamy,  which  is  unwise. 


378  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

"In  England  we  try  questions  of  law  most  admirably. 
The  Judges  in  Banco  deliver  each  his  own  opinion,  with  a 
noble  independence;  whereas  Continental  Judges,  like  the 
doctors  at  Trent,  agree  to  agree.  Our  Criminal  Tribunals 
are  without  appeal,  which  is  foolish,  and  yet — folly  upon 
folly — cling  to  a  method  which  is  eternally  failing  to  dis- 
cover the  truth,  often  condemns  the  innocent,  and  very 
often  acquits  the  guilty.  "We  try  issues  of  fact  in  civil 
cases  very  honestly  by  strict  rules  of  evidence,  that  ex- 
clude some  truth  but  more  falsehood;  but  we  are  behind 
our  age  and  our  neighbors  in  the  machinery  of  justice. 
Although  the  nation  is  dotted  with  cities  larger  and  more 
enlightened  than  London  was  when  the  very  youngest  of 
our  great  courts  was  established,  we  refuse  to  all  those 
cities  competent  jurisdiction  and  judges  worthy  of  the 
name.  Instead  of  dividing  the  country  into  legal  dioceses, 
which  is  the  Continental  and  rational  system,  we  cling 
to  superannuated  metropolization  and  strolling  justices. 
Mark  the  consequences.  While  the  London  judges  are 
traipsing  about  the  country,  trying  hurriedly,  and  some- 
times not  trying  at  all,  provincial  cases  that  ought  to  be 
all  carefully  and  patiently  tried  in  Bristol,  Birmingham, 
Manchester,  Oxford,  Nottingham,  and  York  (for  trial  by 
jury  becomes  a  national  lure  if  only  London  judges  are 
allowed  to  sum  up  the  evidence),  our  vast  metropolis  is 
handed  over  to  the  dominion  of  injustice  for  three  mortal 
months.  Only  conceive! — Justice  cut  off  at  the  fountain- 
head  for  one  fourth  of  the  whole  year — justice,  which  is 
the  breath  of  every  nation's  nostrils,  and  every  city's. 
The  Lord's  day,  Christmas  day,  and  Good  Friday  are  the 
only  days  on  which  justice  ought  to  intermit.  The  na- 
tion is  unwise  to  allow  any  other  cessation  of  justice,  and 
unwise  to  allow  it  to  be  called  vacation;  for  that  term  sets 


Wisdom  and  Folly.  379 

the  convenience  of  a  small  clique  above  the  vital  interests 
of  a  great  nation,  and  egotistical  phrases,  once  accepted 
by  a  country,  perpetuate  unjust  acts. 

"The  year  1851  was  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  man- 
kind. Several  countries  compared  the  products  of  their 
skill,  which  is  a  kind  of  wisdom,  and  even  that  narrow 
comparison  opened  the  eyes  of  national  egotism;  we  all 
got  a  glimpse  of  the  salutary  truth  that  every  nation  has 
much  to  learn  and  much  to  teach.  Successive  exhibitions 
confirmed  this  truth,  and  the  world  is  profiting. 

"Now  if  the  laws  and  customs  and  habits  of  various 
nations  could  be  brought  into  one  building  and  submitted 
to  our  senses  and  our  judgment,  that  exhibition  of  things 
mental  would  teach  a  nobler  and  a  wider  wisdom.  The 
comparison  of  material  objects  teaches  manufacturers,  but 
this  would  create  lawgivers  and  guide  philanthropists. 

"But  no  Crystal  Palace  can  do  the  world  so  great  a  ser- 
vice.    Can  it  be  done  at  all  ? 

"I  once  thought  of  a  book  as  the  vehicle  of  comparison; 
and  made  copious  notes  accordingly.  But  now  I  am  hum- 
bler, and  therefore  most  likely  wiser.  A  book  written  by 
one  man,  and  containing  the  fruits  of  his  own  travels,  re- 
searches, and  inquiries,  is  too  small  a  vehicle  for  so  great 
and  dignified  a  theme. 

"The  Crystal  Palaces  point  to  the  only  way.  There 
must  be  many  contributors  from  every  nation,  and  there 
must  be  a  grand  receptacle.  I  think  the  columns  of  a  great 
journal  might  be  the  Crystal  Palace  to  receive  sifted  con- 
tributions, and  leave  the  world  wiser  than  they  found  it." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

FBIENDS,  FAUTOES,   AND    FAVOEITES. 

Before  we  approach  the  last  success  of  the  author,  who 
considered  himself  to  be  before  all  else  a  dramatist,  a  suc- 
cess the  sweetness  whereof  was  doomed  to  turn  to  bitter 
ere  it  was  so  much  as  sipped,  it  may  be  well  to  notice  in 
brief  his  social  life,  and  also  some  among  the  many  friends 
of  his  literary  career. 

The  twelve  years  of  Albert  Gate  were  perhaps  the  hap- 
piest, as  they  were  certainly  the  most  prosperous,  of  his 
entire  span.  His  residence  may  not  inaptly  be  termed  a 
bijou.  It  was  cosey  without  being  cramped,  enriched  with 
works  of  art  throughout;  at  the  back  a  complete  nis  m 
urbe,  shaded  by  the  trees  of  the  park,  on  the  reverse  facing 
the  confluence  of  three  fashionable  thoroughfares.  In  spite 
of  chronic  theatrical  losses,  which  absorbed  considerably 
more — according  to  his  own  reiterated  asseveration — than 
half  his  receipts  from  literature,  he  enjoyed  an  almost  un- 
limited command  of  ready  money,  nor  was  he  ever  a  stu- 
dent of  petty  economy.  The  somewhat  commanding  man- 
ner he  had  inherited  from  his  splendid  sire  was  redeemed 
by  sweetness  and  affability;  and  although  his  bent  was 
never  that  of  a  gregarious  animal,  his  society  was  sought 
eagerly — chiefly  of  course  by  people  possessed  of  some 
brain  power.  At  thirty-five  he  had  been,  so  to  speak, 
played  out — his  fellowship  virtually  pawned,  his  patri- 
mony spent.    At  fifty-five  he  could  boast  himself  a  gen- 


Fmends^  Fautm^s^  and  Favorites.  381 

tleman  of  some  fortune;  bis  fellowship  was  alike  unem- 
barrassed and  doubled  in  value,  and  his  books  and  plays 
yielded  him  a  fluctuating  revenue. 

But,  above  all,  the  business  partnership  with  Mrs.  Sey- 
mour had  developed  into  so  tender  a  friendship  as  is  sel- 
dom found  to  gild  the  relations  of  people  united  only  by 
the  tie  of  mutual  esteem.  Dean  Mansel,  in  his  inimitable 
satire  "  Phrontisterion,"  sings,  "  To  the  bosom  of  his  col- 
lege fondly  turned  the  childless  man."  In  Charles  Reade's 
case  the  bosom  of  his  college  was  about  the  very  hardest 
pillow  his  mind  could  conceive;  the  most  unsympathetic, 
the  most  inappreciative.  Mrs.  Seymour  was  not  a  wife, 
but  she  proved  herself  a  faithful  housekeeper  to  the  child- 
less man,  the  compulsory  celibate.  Perhaps,  without  dis- 
respect to  her  memory,  we  may  say  that  her  kindly  sym- 
pathy caused  him  to  forget  his  loneliness.  Certes,  it  became 
part  and  parcel  of  his  existence,  and  when  it  ceased  his  life 
was  wrecked — he  died  by  inches. 

There  occurred  one  episode  in  his  tenure  of  the  pretty. 
Dutchlike  residence  at  Albert  Gate  which  might  have 
terminated  disastrously,  but  for  the  ten  minutes'  extra 
tenacity  of  a  man  always  eager  to  fight  for  his  own  hand. 

Lord  Beaumont,  in  the  interest  of  Belgravia,  let  it  be 
freely  admitted,  promoted  a  private  bill  to  form  a  roadway 
directly  from  Sloane  Street  into  the  park.  This  bill,  had 
it  passed,  would  have  entailed  the  demolition  of  Charles 
Reade's  domicile,  and  his  opinion  was  not  asked  as  to  wheth- 
er he  would  be  prepared  to  sacrifice  the  nest  he  had  made 
for  himself  on  the  altar  of  public  weal.  Had  he  been  con- 
sulted, a  very  ferocious  negative  would  have  been  the  re- 
sponse. As  it  was,  his  blood  rose.  He  painted  "  Naboth's 
Vineyard"  on  the  door-posts  of  his  gate,  and  denounced 
the  offending  nobleman  as  the  Ahab  of  the  nineteenth 


382  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

century.  All  the  town  took  up  the  tale,  and  Lord  Beau- 
mont's scheme  could  not  have  been  forwarded  by  the  gen- 
eral chorus  of  laughter  which  ensued. 

"  Going  to  open  a  new  pub  over  there  ?"  remarked  a 
Putney  bus-driver,  not  very  well  instructed  in  his  Old 
Testament.  "  Rum  sign  to  give  it,  too  !  Who's  Na- 
both?" 

However,  Charles  Reade  did  not  evaporate  in  this  vari- 
ety of  protest.  He  went  to  work  in  right  good  earnest  to 
defeat  Lord  Beaumont's  bill.  That  nobleman  had  a  very 
excellent  case.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  an  entrance 
to  the  park  facing  Sloane  Street  would  be  alike  picturesque 
and  of  advantage  to  equestrians.  It  became  simply  a  ques- 
tion which  of  the  two  was  the  stronger,  the  peer  or  the 
popular  author ;  hence  the  latter,  fighting  as  he  was  for 
hearth  and  home,  put  forth  all  his  strength. 

In  his  guard-book  are  two  letters:  from  Lord  Sherbroke, 
who,  as  Mr.  Robert  Lowe,  was  his  tutor  in  the  old  days  at 
Magdalen;  and  from  Lord  Selborne,  who,  as  Mr.  Roundel! 
Palmer,  was  occasionally  his  convive  in  the  common  room. 
Both  respond  graciously  to  his  request  for  an  interview; 
the  latter  especially,  who  says,  "  I  have  seen  Avith  much 
interest  and  pleasure  your  distinguished  career  as  a  man 
of  letters."  They  bear  the  following  superscription :  "  Two 
fellow  collegians  of  mine,  Robert  Lowe  and  Lord  Selborne 
— Roundell  Palmer.  Threatened  with  spoliation  in  the 
year  1878  by  one  of  those  engines  of  clandestine  iniquity, 
a  private  bill,  I  was  obliged  to  seek  interviews  with  these 
gentlemen  after  forty  years.  They  were  both  very  kind, 
as  big  men  generally  are  on  these  occasions." 

Next,  he  enlisted  on  his  side  the  eloquence  and  intelli- 
gence of  a  lawyer  having  the  ear  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, Sir  Henry  James.     For  the  end  he  had  in  view  this 


Friends,  Fautors,  and  Favorites.  383 

was  most  fortunate,  inasmuch  as  he  was  quite  in  the  mood 
to  dictate  to  botli  Houses  of  Parliament  dogmatically,  and 
any  such  line  of  conduct  would  have  damaged  fatally  his 
chances.  Sir  Henry  James,  like  a  prudent  advocate,  be- 
gan by  taking  his  irrepressible  client  in  hand. 

"My  dear  Reade,"  he  writes,  "I  am  not  surprised  at 
your  indignation — which  is  very  clearly  shown  in  your 
petition.  But  if  you  wish  to  succeed  in  defeating  the  bill, 
you  must  act  with  moderation,  and  take  some  practical 
steps  for  that  purpose."  He  then  proceeds  to  formulate 
a  course  of  action  so  as  to  obtain  the  support  of  the  Com- 
missioners of  Works.  Not  to  prolong  the  tale  of  litigious 
acrimony — the  bill  was  eventually  withdrawn  by  its  pro- 
moters, mainly  in  consequence  of  a  letter  in  the  Daily 
Telegraph  from  Charles  Keade.  This  effusion  was  by  no 
means  what  its  author  intended — he  styles  it  denaturalized, 
at  Sir  Henry  James's  suggestion;  the  fire  and  fury,  in  fact, 
having  been  forcibly  eliminated.  However,  when  a  few 
days  later  he  received  this  missive,  "Dear  Reade,  take 
down  the  '  Naboth's  Vineyard.'  Bill  is  withdrawn," 
he  recognized  the  wisdom  of  his  counsel's  advice,  and 
his  comment  on  Sir  Henry  James  is,  "He  saved  me 
my  property  from  oligarchical  spoliation.  Long  life  to 
him  I" 

He  has  more  to  say  on  the  following  page.  Sir  Henry 
James  probably  failed  to  realize  at  a  glance  how  com- 
pletely incapable  Charles  Reade  was  of  comprehending 
badinage,  chaff,  or  the  sort  of  fun  which  obtains  among 
juniors,  and  is  really  benevolence,  not  ill-nature.  Here 
he  was  pre-eminently  his  mother's  son.  We  have  already 
remarked  on  his  perversity  in  regarding  *  Chicken  Hazard ' 
as  truculent,  whereas  it  was  nothing  worse  than  rollicking 
fun.    This  is  what  he  writes  of  Sir  Henry  James:  "  A  very 


384  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

able  lawyer.  "Will  be  a  judge  if  he  lives  and  chooses* 
Has  judicial  temples.  Made  fun  of  me  at  the  club,  in  a 
way  that  rightly  or  wrongly  mortified  me  from  an  able 
man.  Was  obliged  to  write  a  gentle  remonstrance.  His 
manner  of  receiving  it  does  him  very  great  credit."  Here 
follows  a  very  graceful  note  from  Sir  Henry  James,  amply 
justifying  this  encomium;  and  then:  "This  gentleman 
has  since  laid  me  under  a  deep  and  lasting  obligation,  A 
private  bill  to  despoil  Albert  Terrace.  I  appealed  to 
James  as  a  man  of  principle.  He  read  the  facts — coldly 
at  first,  but  fired  up  on  principle;  whereas  vulgar  minds 
are  only  to  be  fired  by  their  passions.  He  advised  me, 
encouraged  me,  fought  for  me  in  the  Commons,  and  with 
the  very  wind  of  his  good  sword  laid  the  oligarchs  low." 

That  Charles  Reade  was  an  admirer  of  lawyers  gener- 
ally is  by  no  means  the  case;  indeed,  he  possessed  a  happy 
diagnosis  of  judicial  as  well  as  forensic  ability,  while 
blunderheadedness  on  the  bench  or  at  the  bar  aroused  his 
Bcorn.  For  example,  in  Mrs.  Seymour's  action  against  the 
Curling  family,  wherein  he  posed  as  her  champion,  he 
writes  :  "  My  successes  have  been  hardly  won.  In  this 
case  I  had  to  dismiss  Jessel — afterwards  Master  of  the 
Rolls — for  incapacity  (sic)  ;  Ballantyne  for  colloquy  wuth 
defendant's  attorney;  Teesdale,  'his  solicitor,'  because  of 
her  chief  clerk's  incapacity ;  and  Rickard's  managing  clerk !" 
After  this  candid  avowal,  praise  from  him  becomes  doubled 
in  value — the  more  so  because  he  was  sparing  of  it  where 
lawyers  were  concerned.  We  can  only  discover,  among 
his  remains,  four  members  of  his  profession  for  whom  he 
expressed  decided  reverence;  these  were  Mr.  Justice  Lush, 

*  This  is  prophetic.  While  these  lines  were  in  the  press  Sir  Henry 
James  refused  a  judgeship. 


Fnends^  Fautors,  and  Favorites.  385 

Lord  Selborne,  Sir  Henry  James,  and  Mr.  Henry  Matthews, 
the  present  Home  Secretary.  The  last-named  gentleman, 
styled  "  an  able  junior,"  won  for  him  the  Curling  case,  vice 
Jessel  and  Ballantyne — as  he  puts  it,  dismissed — and  he 
sums  up  with  the  reflection  that  he  never  would  have 
obtained  this  satisfactory  result  "  but  for  my  eccentricity 
and  resolution  in  kicking  rogues  and  fools  out  of  the  case, 
one  after  the  other." 

"When  not  lashed  to  fury  by  a  lawsuit,  or  writhing  be- 
neath the  double  thong  of  some  critical  censor,  his  days 
passed  evenly  and  pleasantly.  His  pen,  his  club,  the 
theatre,  an  evening  at  home,  or  with  his  family,  such  was 
the  normal  round;  while  Sunday  afternoon  was  devoted 
to  his  sister  Ellinor  so  long  as  her  life  lasted  ;  and  Sunday 
evening  to  the  reception  of  friends,  for  the  most  part  those 
of  Mrs.  Seymour.  The  rule  nulla  dies  sine  lined  kept  his 
mind  fixed  on  the  work  he  had  on  hand,  and  beyond  a 
doubt  the  older  he  grew  the  more  he  loved  his  literary 
labor.  We  give  a  few  casual  excerpts  from  his  irregular 
diaries  to  afford  a  rough  idea  of  his  social  life: 

"June  8,  1871. — My  birthday — fifty-seven  years  old; 
present  from  Ellinor,  at  Brighton,  pencil-case.  Compton," 
(his  brother),  "  staying  with  me.  This  day  twelvemonth 
died  my  good  friend  and  master,  Dickens  !  31ultis  ille 
bonis  flehilis.  Dinner.  Sole,  goose,  cherry  pie,  omelet, 
clotted  cream.  William  came  in  the  evening,  brought  me 
some  grapes.  I  say,  what  a  pity  a  fellow  can  only  be  born 
once  a  year! 

"  June  25. — Received  the  visit  of  Miss ,  a  Yankee 

girl,  who  wants  to  lecture  here — I  believe  on  Dickens.  I 
was  weak  enough  to  be  decoyed  into  a  promise  to  hear  her 
lecture  privately  with  a  friend  or  two.  Not  so  weak  as  to 
go  though.  Mean  to  be  more  on  my  guard  against  the 
17 


886  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

egotism  of  the  people  who  come  to  me.  In  a  personal 
interview  everybody  gets  the  better  of  me.    This  girl  tells 

me  Miss boasts  in  America  of  great  intimacy  with 

me,  and  announces  a  lecture  about  my  life.  I  really  in- 
tended to  send  her  some  particulars;  but  I  fear  the  whole 
thing  will  lower  me,  the  lady  being  a  failure.  Oh  !  what 
caution,  what  prudence  the  world  requires. 

"July  16.  —  Dined  Boucicault.  Sat  next  to  General 
Sickles,  who  murdered  Key,  his  wife's  corrupter,  and  after 
imprisonment  fought  gallantly  in  the  civil  war,  and  now 
goes  on  crutches ;  one  leg  I  fear.  An  intelligent  man. 
Has  every  hopes  of  the  negro  :  opportunities  of  studying 
him.  Shook  hands  with  him  at  parting.  Did  not  feel  any 
rej)ugnance  to  him.     No  use  saying  I  did. 

"January  1,  —  A  large  supper- party.  Thirty- seven 
people:  Lords  Londesborough  and  Newry,  Hon.  F.  Wing- 
field,  H.  Matthews,  Q.  C,  Mr.  Lake,  Miss  Braddon,  Henry 
Neville,  Miss  Pateman,  the  rising  actress,  and  several  very 
beautiful  actresses. 

"  By  Mrs.  Seymour's  skill  three  tables  across  the  room, 
one  taking  advantage  of  entrance.  Nobody  crushed. 
Servants — room  to  wait  at  all  the  tables.  Two  girls  did 
all  the  waiting  without  any  trouble.  No  green-grocer  in 
white  gloves.  No  bad  music.  No  dancing.  Yet  all  merry 
till  4  P.M. 

"  My  nieces,  Cecy  and  Florence,  called  to  wish  me  good- 
bye on  their  way  to  India.  They  seem  quite  insouciantes. 
Florence  explained  to  me  why  I  have  no  wrinkles — 'Be- 
cause you  are  not  married.' 

"  October  21. — First  night  of  'The  Frozen  Deep,'  Wigan 
was  good  enough  to  give,  me  an  excellent  box.     Invited 

Dallas  and  Mrs.  D ,  Miss  Glyn.     Miss  Braddon  in  the 

house — chatted  with  her.     Says  she  got  the  plot  of  *  Birds 


Friends,  Fautors,  and  Favorites.  387 

of  Prey'  at  my  table.  The  play  poorly  acted.  It  is  a 
pretty  play,  but  wanted  a  head  at  rehearsal.  Too  much 
narrative;  but,  after  all,  original  and  interesting,  and  the 
closing  scene  great  and  pathetic.  Ah,  yes  !  let  us  see  the 
goodness  and  beauty  of  the  human  soul  on  the  stage. 
There  is  little  enough  of  it  to  be  seen  en  ville  ! 

"  Dined  with  Sir  Charles  Taylor.  Oysters,  thin  soup, 
turbot,  little  mutton  pies  much  peppered,  fillet  of  black- 
cock (delicious),  haunch  of  red-deer  (very  fine,  and  for  a 
wonder  tender),  ham,  jelly,  cream,  grouse,  Italian  sardines, 
little  oat-cakes.  Six  people.  No  celebrities.  Rubber. 
Perdidi  pecuniam. 

"Breakfast  9.30.  Just  skimming  two  newspapers,  to  be 
read  more  carefully  after  dinner,  wasted  till  12.30.  Thus 
I  never  get  a  day's  work  and  never  shall.  Pasting  in  ex- 
tracts— Percy  about  animals,  till  nearly  three.  Tedious 
work.  It  being  almost  impossible  to  classify  them  prop- 
erly at  once,  I  paste  them  first  into  a  book  as  classificanda. 
Then  by  degrees  I  may  cut  them  out,  and  put  them  in  a 
guard-book  in  some  order.  But  it  is  not  easy  to  me.  I 
have  the  desire  for  method,  but  not  the  gift. 

"January  21. — Letters  and  journals  read,  and  breakfast 
over  by  10.15  a.m. 

"  2  P.M. — Pasted  in  a  few  extracts — Percy. 

"3  P.M. — Wrote  my  first  story  for  publication,  title, 
'  A  Special  Constable.'  The  *  Special  Constable '  is  a  dog. 
In  its  original  form  it  is  a  mere  newspaper  anecdote,  striking 
to  a  man  of  imagination,  but  not  to  the  public — thirty-five 
lines  of  print.  I  have  made  it  from  an  anecdote  into  a  story. 

"  4  P.M. — Story  completed — a  good  day's  work." 

This  story  was  the  first  of  the  series  he  terms  JBon. 
Fah.,  published  in  Belgravia  as  "  Good  Stories  of  Men  and 
Animals." 


888  Memoir  of  Charles  Beade. 

"  Dined  with  Boucicault  to  warm  his  new  dining-room. 
Convives — Yates,  Sir  II,  Thompson,  Webster,  a  foreigner, 
a  gentleman  whose  mouth  was  entirely  concealed  with  hair 
that  looked  like  a  mat,  O'Dowd,  Boucicault,  Reade.  No 
ladies.  Clear  turtle,  thick  whiting  pudding,  lobster,  cut- 
lets, salmon  suchet.  An  entree,  and  a  turkey-poult  larded. 
Pease,  potatoes,  ham.  A  pleasant  dinner — as  it  always  is 
when  there  are  no  ladies  to  confine  the  conversation  within 
their  own  narrow  bonds — but  not  so  brilliant  as  sometimes. 
Yates  good  company.  Billy  Russell  was  threatened,  but 
did  not  come,  unfortunately." 

[N.B. — Mr.  Edmund  Yates  was  throughout  a  prime  fa- 
vorite with  our  author,  so  much  so  that  he  could  not  bring 
h'msclf  to  accept  the  more  than  handsome  overtures  of  the 
Whitehall  HevieWy  lest  he  should  appear  in  opposition  to 
his  friend.] 

"Poor  old  Billy"  (his  brother  William)  "has  taken  four 
stalls  for  boxing  night,  i.  e.,  for  '  It  is  Never  Too  Late  to 
Mend.'  I  told  my  leading  lady.  Of  course,  I  added  he  had 
forestalled  the  public.    She  said  that  was  clever.    So  be  it. 

"Whist.  Lost  £3  10s.  to  Sergeant  Ballantyne,  of  whom 
I  generally  win.  Ballantyne  bets  me  £1  in  the  rubber  and 
the  usual  odds,  five  to  two  on  the  first  game. 

"  Perdidi  diem.  A  thoroughly  blank  day.  Not  a  stroke 
of  work,  though  I  have  a  great  subject  on  hand.  Morning, 
a  few  letters.  Then  two  hours'  company.  Then  four 
hours'  whist — "proh  jmdor  t  Dinner,  and  a  French  novel. 
At  my  age  such  a  day  is  monstrous,  and  ought  to  fill  me 
with  shame. 

"Letters.  Extracting  dialect  from  the  drama  'Joan.' 
Whist — won  235.  Dinner  at  6.50,  instead  of  6.30.  Home 
in  good  time  too.  Pheasant,  beefsteak  pudding,  pint  of 
sparkling  Moselle. 


Friends^  Fautors,  and  Favorites.  389 

"Dies  prce  omnibus  infelix.  Perdidi  super  whistam  se- 
decini  libras.     0  dies  nefastus  /" 

The  above  extracts,  selected  almost  at  random,  give  a 
fair  picture  of  the  author's  manner  of  life.  He  was  at  that 
period  an  honest  and  laborious  toiler,  yet  a  firm  believer 
in  the  virtue  of  an  amusement  which  now  usurped  the 
hours  dedicated  in  his  youth  to  field  sports,  cricket,  skittles, 
bowls,  and,  be  it  added,  battledore  and  shuttlecock,  a  very 
favorite  game  of  his.  He  seemed  to  reproach  himself  for 
sitting  so  long  over  the  card-table.  Mrs.  Seymour,  on  the 
other  hand,  favored  his  whist.  "  It  distracts  his  mind," 
she  said,  "from  his  work,  and  cheers  him."  Doubtless 
this  may  have  been  the  case  as  a  rule  ;  yet  evidently  when 
his  day's  losses  reached  £16  he  was  inclined  to  fret,  and  on 
such  occasions  this  particular  feature  in  his  daily  routine 
seemed  to  prick  his  conscience.  As  the  years  rolled  on, 
and  his  reputation  was  not  being  enhanced,  a  feeling  of 
dissatisfaction  stole  upon  him,  and  at  last  he  thought  seri- 
ously of  standing  for  some  constituency  as  an  independent 
candidate.  Here,  however,  he  encountered  the  strenuous 
opposition  of  Mrs.  Seymour. 

"Whatever- you  do,"  she  cried  to  the  writer  of  these 
lines,  "don't  on  any  account  urge  your  uncle  to  embark 
on  a  career  for  which  his  irritability  unfits  him." 

Mrs.  Seymour  may  have  judged  rightly,  and  certainly 
Charles  Reade's  age  seemed  almost  to  offer  a  bar  to  a 
political  experiment.  Anyhow  the  notion  never  got  beyond 
mere  discussion;  the  course  of  events  took  another,  and 
a  sadder,  turn. 

In  connection  with  the  ordinary  social  life  of  our  au- 
thor we  believe  it  will  be  of  interest  both  to  mention 
in  brief  his  chief  literary  friends,  and  also,  where  it  is 
feasible,  to  append  his  verdict  on  them  and  theirs  on  him. 


890  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

Next  to  Lord  Lytton,  the  novelist,  whose  letters  he  re- 
ligiously preserved,  Charles  Dickens  occupied  the  highest 
place  in  his  esteem.  He  styles  him,  as  we  have  already 
seen,  his  master,  and  held  his  genius  in  love  and  reverence. 
On  one  occasion  he  had  the  alternative  of  meeting  at  din- 
ner a  member  of  the  aristocracy,  whom  he  had  every  desire 
to  cultivate,  or  Charles  Dickens.  His  reply  was  caustic. 
"If  I  am  asked  to  meet  a  celebrity  or  an  obscurity,"  he 
wrote,  "  I  prefer  the  celebrity." 

Among  many  letters,  the  longer  referring  to  the  not 
very  alluring  topic  of  international  copyright,  addressed 
by  Charles  Dickens  to  Charles  Reade,  it  is  hardly  possible 
to  make  a  satisfactory  selection.  Here  is  a  kindly  frag- 
ment: "  I  must  write  you  a  line  to  say  how  interested  I  am 
in  your  story,  and  to  congratulate  you  upon  its  admirable 
art  and  its  surprising  force  and  vigor." 

Again,  this  from  Gadshill: 

"  Mr  DKAR  Reade, — ^You  once  gave  me  hope  of  your  coming  down  to  see 
me  here ;  could  you  join  our  family  party  on  the  last  day  of  the  old  year  ? 
If  so,  I  should  be  delighted  to  see  you,  and  to  show  you  an  old  castle,  and 
an  old  county  in  a  new-year's  day  ramble. 

"  Faithfully  yours  always, 

"Charles  Dickens." 

Under  this  honored  name  Charles  Reade  wrote  in  his 
guard-book  but  one  word,  "  Eheu  !" — a  fitting  tribute.  Ho 
held  Charles  Dickens  to  be  the  greatest  Englishman  of  the 
century,  and  never  hesitated  to  express  his  indignation  at 
a  system  which  has  choked  the  peerage  with  third-rate 
lawyers  and  tenth -rate  politicians,  while  it  has  almost 
persistently  excluded  genius.  His  own  labors  on  behalf 
of  the  oppressed,  his  self-sacrificing  philanthropy,  his 
championship  of  right,  never  received  the  smallest  recog- 
nition ;  and  on  the  one  occasion  when  he  headed  a  deputa- 


Friends,  Fautors,  and  Favm'ites.  391 

tion  on  the  subject  of  international  copyright  to  interview 
Lord  Beaconsfield,  that  eminent  personage  exhibited  the 
quality  of  his  breeding  by  yawning  in  his  face.  He  had 
not  to  yawn  twice.  Charles  Reade  came  to  an  abrupt 
pause  in  the  very  core  of  his  subject,  bowed,  and  re- 
tired. 

Among  his  epistolary  treasures  a  letter  of  Miss  Hogarth 
was  especially  cherished.  It  is  addressed  from  Gadshill 
on  the  eve  of  departure  from  that  home  which  the  supreme 
novelist  had  created  and  adorned. 

This  lady  writes: 

"  Mt  dkar  Me.  Reade, — My  dearest  brother-in-law  left  me  a  legacy  of 
all  the  little  familiar  objects  iti  his  room  and  on  his  writing-table.  And  I 
understood  him  to  mean  that  I  should  distribute  them  among  the  many 
friends  who  loved  him.  My  task  has  been  a  very  diflScult  one — as  you  may 
suppose — the  '  objects '  being  so  very  few  in  proportion.  So  I  am  obliged 
to  give  the  merest  trifle  to  each.  But  I  am  quite  sure  that  you — who  loved 
and  reverenced  him  as  he  deserved — will  be  glad  to  have  something  that 
belonged  to  him  familiarly,  even  though  the  thing  is  of  no  value  in  itself. 
Therefore  I  venture  to  send  you  this  little  pen-tray  as  a  relic.  It  belonged 
to  our  little  sitting-room  at  the  office — a  place  that  he  was  very  fond  of — 
and  used  very  much,  so  that  this  little  article  was  constantly  under  his  eye, 
and  associated  with  his  familiar  every-day  life.  Will  you  accept  it  from 
mo  with  my  love  and  regard  ?  You  don't  need  to  be  told  by  me — still  I 
think  it  will  be  pleasant  to  you — now — to  have  a  fresh  assurance  of  tlie 
affection  and  esteem  in  which  he  held  you.  You  did  not  meet  very  often ; 
but  I  never  heard  him  speak  of  you  except  with  the  heartiest  and  most 
cordial  expressions  of  admiration,  respect,  and  personal  affection. 

"  We  leave  this  dear  place  forever  next  Monday.  It  will  be  a  good 
thing  for  us  all  now  when  that  wrench  is  over ;  but  it  is  a  terrible  hour  to 
look  forward  to. 

"Believe  me,  my  dear  Mr.  Reade,  affectionately  yours, 

"Georgina  Hogarth." 

The  above  is  inscribed  by  Charles  Reade,  "  a  valued  let- 
ter from  Miss  Hogarth,  giving  me  Dickens's  pen-tray,  and 


892  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

assuring  me  of  his  kindly  feelings  towards  me,  which  in- 
deed he  never  left  me  in  doubt  of." 

His  idolatry  of  Charles  Dickens  caused  our  author  per- 
haps to  underestimate  not  only  George  Eliot,  but  Thack- 
eray also,  and  Trollope.  The  last-named  novelist,  if  quick 
to  resent  what  he  deemed  a  liberty,  was  filled  with  kindly 
sentiments  for  his  brother  in  art,  and  spoke  of  him  with 
warmth.  Charles  Reade  was  more  appreciative  of  a  writer 
of  the  same  school — ^JNIrs.  Oliphant — possibly  because  of 
her  sex,  for  he  was  indisposed  towards  severity  where  lady 
authors  were  concerned,  provided  that  they  were  not  un- 
duly belauded,  and  avoided,  the  philosophical  error  of  dul- 
ness.  He  has  preserved  some  of  this  lady's  letters,  but 
without  comment.  Next  to  Dickens,  however,  he  ranked, 
qualis  inter  viburna  cujoressus,  his  very  dear  friend,  Mr, 
Wilkie  Collins,  "an  artist  of  the  pen.  There  are  terribly 
few  among  writers,"  was  his  terse  eulogium,  the  plain  fi^ct 
being  that  this  past  master  in  the  art  of  dramatic  construc- 
tion excels  all  competitors  just  where  most  English  authors 
fail.  His  plots  resemble  nothing  so  much  as  the  intricate 
arabesques  of  an  Oriental  designer.  Their  complexity 
dazzles,  yet  they  are  always  simple,  never  obscure.  More- 
over— and  here  they  commanded  Charles  Reade's  most 
earnest  enthusiasm — they,  or  rather  some  of  them,  lend 
themselves  intuitively  to  the  stage.  They  dramatize  easi- 
ly and  naturally;  indeed  "The  New  Magdalen"  may  be 
fairly  termed  one  of  the  most  effective  of  modern  dramas. 
Mr.  Wilkie  Collins,  therefore,  if  we  may  put  it  so,  hit 
Charles  Reade's  ideal,  and  secured,  in  consequence,  that 
sort  of  genuine  admiration  which  an  author  offers  his 
brother  in  art  when  he  esteems  him  greater  than  himself. 
For  ourselves,  we  refrain  from  instituting  a  comparison 
between  writers  in  every  detail  dissimilar.     It  is  enough 


Friends^  Fautors,  and  Favorites.  393 

that  Charles  Reade  rendered  due  homage  to  his  friend, 
and  towards  him  was  as  appreciative  as  affectionate.  He 
preserved  his  letters  as  heirlooms  for  his  family — in  a 
word  he  believed  in  him  both  as  a  man  and  as  an  author 
whose  future  is  assured. 

In  no  less  esteem  did  he  hold  another  of  the  great  novel- 
ists of  the  Victorian  era.  Mrs.  John  Maxwell  (M.  E.  Brad- 
don)  possesses  that  special  quality  which  Charles  Reade 
cultivated  as  a  prime  essential  of  dramatic  narration — viz., 
the  faculty  of  enchaining  a  reader  without  a  halt  or  break. 
It  was  this  idea  which  caused  our  author,  malgre  the  ex- 
ample of  Dickens,  to  describe  a  story  within  a  story  as  "  a 
flaw  in  art  " — i.  e.,  it  destroys  the  main  interest.  No  sooner 
had  this  most  charming  writer  gained  a  reputation,  as  it 
were  by  a  stroke  of  the  pen,  than  Charles  Reade  hastened 
to  court  her  acquaintance,  and  this  soon  ripened  into  friend- 
ship. He  was  ever  grateful  for  the  generous  hospitality 
of  Lichfield  House,  but  most  especially  so  when  he  could 
monopolize  the  attention  of  its  mistress.  He  avowed  him- 
self, in  fact,  thoroughly  happy  in  the  company  of  Mrs. 
Maxwell,  delighted  with  her  conversation,  interested  in 
herself,  her  books,  and  all  that  concerned  her.  We  are 
fortunately  able  to  append  this  lady's  own  brief  remi- 
niscences of  a  friend,  and  a  very  sincere  one  also.  Would 
that  in  return  we  could  reproduce  the  hundred  and  one 
kind  words  he  had  always  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  for 
her ! 

"One  of  the  brightest  memories  of  my  literary  life," 
she  writes,  "  is  my  memory  of  Mr.  Charles  Reade.  He 
sought  me  out  at  the  outset  of  my  career,  and  extended 
the  hand  of  friendship  to  a  beginner  in  literature  with  a 
generous  kindness  which  never  failed  me  in  after-years. 
He  had  a  chivalrous  and  protecting  spirit  in  all  his  deal- 
17* 


"804  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

ings  with  women,  or  with  the  weak;  the  same  spirit  which 
so  often  urged  him  to  fight  on  the  losing  side,  and  to  bring 
to  bear  all  the  power  of  his  fiery  pen  in  the  cause  of  the 
fallen  or  the  oppressed.  lie,  who  in  public  life  was  the 
fiercest  of  foes  and  partisans,  where  wrong  or  injustice 
had  to  be  encountered,  was  in  domestic  life  the  gentlest, 
meekest,  loveliest  spirit;  the  ideal  gentleman  and  Christian, 
full  to  overflowing  of  that  charity  which  suffereth  long 
and  is  kind. 

"  How  many  traits  of  gentleness  I  could  recall,  did  I  not 
fear  to  lapse  into  triviality.  One  little  incident  struck  me 
as  characteristic  of  his  benevolence  and  thoughtfulness  for 
others.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  having  his  manuscript 
copied  in  a  large,  bold  hand  on  foolscap  paper,  leaving 
about  half  of  each  sheet  as  margin  for  corrections  and  in- 
terpolations. 

"  *  My  copyist  calls  every  day  for  more  work,'  he  said, 
*and  I  don't  like  to  disappoint  him,  poor  fellow,  so  he 
keeps  me  uji  to  the  mark,  when  I  am  inclined  to  be  idle.' 

"  His  house  was  a  refuge  for  the  destitute  and  the  unhap- 
py. To  be  in  trouble  was  a  passport  to  Charles  Reade's  hos- 
pitality, and  that  faithful  friend  of  long  years  who  bright- 
ened his  home  by  her  genial  presence  was  of  the  same 
temper.  To  nurse  the  sick,  to  comfort  the  mourner,  to 
create  an  atmosphere  of  friendliness  and  easy,  gracious 
hospitality  was  as  natural  to  Laura  Seymour  as  to  Charles 
Reade. 

"To  children  his  manner  was  delightful;  and  he  never 
seemed  bored  by  their  presence.  In  many  of  his  tastes, 
notably  his  gastronomical  tastes,  he  was  still  a  child;  liked 
jams  and  tarts  and  puddings,  and  had  a  childish  leaning  to 
the  unwholesome,  rather  than  the  wholesome,  in  diet.  His 
love  of  pets,  and  strange  ones,  was  in  some  wise  childlike. 


Friends^  Fautors,  and  Favorites.  395 

Well  do  I  remember  his  effort  to  acclimatize  a  small  ante- 
lope in  liis  back  garden,  and  his  pride  in  the  melancholy- 
looking  beast  which  stared  in  at  us  through  the  plate-glass 
doors  of  his  study.  He  tried  hard  to  tame  a  hare,  to  be 
to  him  what  Puss  was  to  Cowper;  but  the  animal  was  too 
stupid  to  appreciate  or  understand  the  honor  conferred 
upon  him.  Only  man's  true  and  loyal  friend,  the  horse  or 
the  dog,  was  worthy  of  Charles  Reade's  love.  His  note- 
books were  a  hobby  and  a  pride;  but  as  these  are  known 
to  the  public,  I  will  not  dwell  upon  them.  Once  I  ven- 
tured to  ask  if  these  huge  storehouses  of  miscellaneous  in- 
formation really  repaid  him  for  the  trouble  of  collecting 
them.  He  was  not  angry,  but  answered,  meekly,  *  Well, 
perhaps  they  do  not.  I  sometimes  doubt  if  they  are  not 
too  voluminous  to  be  useful;'  yet  with  a  glance  of  pride  at 
the  elephantine  red-backed  folios  ranged  at  the  base  of  his 
Cyclopean  writing-table. 

"To  have  him  all  to  one's  self,  as  it  were,  in  a  long  even- 
ing of  discursive  talk,  drifting  from  one  subject  to  another, 
was  unalloyed  delight.  Would  that  there  had  been  a 
Boswell  to  remember  and  preserve  all  such  conversations. 
Deepest  thought  and  strong  originality  marked  all  his 
ideas  and  opinions  upon  men  and  books;  and  no  man  I 
ever  met  had  a  more  generous  appreciation  of  the  merits 
of  his  contemporaries  or  a  greater  reverence  for  the  mighty 
dead.  I  remember  once,  when  looking  through  his  books 
with  him,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  Campbell's  '  Life  of  Lord 
Mansfield,'  and  said, '  What  a  man  that  was!  Some  of  his 
judgments  exhibit  a  sense  of  justice  that  was  almost  di- 
vine.' And  there  was  a  touch  of  pathos  in  the  earnestness 
of  his  tone. 

"He  had  a  profound  contempt  for  the  theorists  who 
argue  that  Shakespeare  was  an  incapable  and  an  impostor, 


896  Memoir  of  Charles  Beads. 

a  mere  stalking-horse  for  Lord  Bacon.  It  was  a  sign  of 
incipient  madness,  he  declared,  to  have  any  doubt  as  to 
the  identity  of  him  who  wrote  *  Macbeth '  and  *  Othello.' 
*  It  was  no  more  in  Bacon's  power  to  have  written  those 
plays  than  it  was  in  Locke's  or  Dugald  Stewart's.  The 
whole  bent  and  character  of  the  man's  mind  was  differ- 
ent.' 

"  Poet,  dreamer,  and  thinker  as  he  was  in  hoars  of  re- 
laxation, in  all  the  business  of  life  he  was  severely  prac- 
tical. Never  was  a  man  more  in  the  movement  of  his 
time.  I  told  him  once  that  I  rarely  read  the  newspapers, 
as  I  had  only  too  little  time  for  reading  books.  'You 
should  read  the  papers,'  he  said,  *  and  leave  books  alone.' 

"  Late  in  the  evening  he  would  seat  himself  at  the  piano, 
and,  after  playing  a  few  chords,  would  sing  some  old-world 
ballad,  in  a  low  voice  which  was  full  of  tenderness.  Those 
simple,  pathetic  songs  seemed  a  fitting  close  to  the  long 
evening  of  talk.  Never  can  I  forget  those  evenings  in  our 
house  or  in  his,  nor  his  genial  welcome  at  all  times,  pleased 
to  be  taken  by  surprise  in  his  picturesque  working-room, 
half  library,  half  picture-gallery,  always  greeting  his 
friends  with  the  same  gentle  cordiality. 

"  Difficult  to  believe  that  this  most  gracious  and  excep- 
tionally courteous  English  gentleman  was  the  bellicose 
Charles  Reade,  whose  spirited  advocacy  of  his  own  cause, 
when  smarting  under  piracy,  or  malevolent  libel,  had  all 
the  force  and  vigor  of  Cicero  or  Edward  Clark." 

Charles  Reade  was,  perhaps — as  regards  the  male  sex  at 
all  events — a  man  of  few  friends,  yet  with  many  acquaint- 
ances, and  oftentimes  rated  an  author  as  his  friend,  as  it 
were  for  the  sake  of  sympathy,  and  because  he  respected 
his  brain-power.  Thus,  for  example,  he  styled  Mr.  James 
Rice^  "  one  of  my  few  friends  on  the  press,  as  it  is  called — 


Friends,  Fautors,  dnd  Favorites.  so*? 

a  Cambridge  man ;"  adding,  as  a  foot-note, "  and  has  since 
written '  Ready-money,  Mortiboy.' "  Elsewhere  he  has  more 
to  say  in  favor  of  the  excellent  book,  and  does  not  omit 
in  his  eulogium  the  senior  partner  in  its  production,  Mr. 
Walter  Besant.  Strange  to  relate,  he  failed  to  perceive 
merit  in  "  Ouida  "  till  the  writer  of  these  lines  placed  in 
his  hand  that  tragic  idyl,  "Two  Little  "Wooden  Shoes," 
when  he  at  first  burst  forth  into  rhapsody.  Miss  Brough- 
ton  he  summed  up  briefly  as  "  a  spirited  girl."  To  the 
sterner  sex  he  is  not  always  quite  so  civil,  e.  g.,  he  thus 
describes  Mr.  Mark  Twain  :  "An  American  humorist,  and 
really  has  much  humor.  But  oh !  his  speech.  Knock  a 
macaw's  head  on  an  iron  rail !"  Mark  Lemon  he  dismisses 
as  a  genial  companion  and  a  writer  of  smart  farces,  add- 
ing sorrowfully  the  valedictory  "  Gone !"  his  tribute  to 
those  among  his  circle  who  had  left  it.  For  Shirley 
Brooks  he  has  no  more  to  say  than  that  he  was  his  good 
friend. 

It  would  be  unhandsome  on  our  part  if  we  failed  to 
enumerate  among  Charles  Reade's  brothers  in  the  Repub- 
lic of  Literati  his  earliest  friend  and  collaborator,  Mr.  Tom 
Taylor,  or  his  literary  partner  of  later  days,  Mr.  Dion 
Boucicault.  Mr.  Tom  Taylor,  in  a  certain  sense,  may  be 
deemed  the  medium  whereby  he  first  appeared  before  the 
public.  He  was  that  estimable  gentleman's  frequent  guest. 
Mr.  Arnold  Taylor  describes  their  collaboration  in  "  Masks 
and  Faces  "as  thus:  "One  was  the  cutter-out;  the  other 
the  cuttee."  Whether  that  be  a  correct  representation  of 
the  creative  process  which  resulted  in  so  grand  a  success, 
or  only  partly  accurate,  certain  it  is  that  at  that  time 
Charles  Reade  leaned  on  Tom  Taylor  for  advice,  and  re- 
ceived from  him  a  boon  he  sorely  stood  in  need  of,  viz., 
encouragement.     Many  years  later,  when  Tom  Taylor's 


"398  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade, 

race  was  run,  and  the  gifted  musician  who  had  been  his 
life's  partner  was  a  widow,  Charles  Reade  evinced  his  ap- 
preciation of  Tom  Taylor's  aid  in  a  manner  alike  charac- 
teristic and  delicate.  He  knew  how  deeply  he  was  in- 
debted to  the  strong  man  who  placed  his  foot  for  him  on 
the  first  rung  of  the  ladder  of  fame. 

We  have  already  noticed  Mr.  Dion  Boucicault's  share 
in  "Foul  Play."  This  collaboration  gratified  Charles 
Reade  more  thoroughly  than  any  during  his  lifetime;  and 
although  he  could  chaff  Mr.  Boucicault  as  "  a  sly  fox," 
esteemed  both  his  society  and  friendship  very  highly.  On 
one  occasion,  when  a  remark  was  hazarded  in  disparage- 
ment of  a  drama  by  this  gentleman,  he  returned  con- 
temptuously on  the  speaker  with  the  query,  "Will  you 
find  me  another  man  in  England  who  could  write  such  a 
comedy  ?"  Nor  was  his  belief  in  Mr.  Boucicault  ever 
shaken — indeed,  he  envied  his  capacity  for  commanding 
both  the  tears  and  laughter,  the  astonishment  and  delight, 
of  the  Gallery. 

Charles  Reade's  acquaintance  with  journalists  was  not 
quite  as  extensive  as  might  have  been  presupposed.  Mr. 
Yates  he  thoroughly  liked,  but  chiefly  as  a  novelist  who 
possesses  a  strong  grasp  of  plot  and  situation.  Mr.  Edwin 
Arnold  he  corresponded  with  for  many  years,  and  on  a 
great  variety  of  subjects.  His  appreciation  of  the  poet 
and  essayist,  the  scholar  and  the  Orientalist,  may  be  in- 
ferred from  the  simple  fact  that  he  cherished  all  letters 
from  this  gentleman  having  reference  to  his  books.  He 
has  headed  his  name  in  his  guard-book  with  the  Horatian 
compliment,  Jwfeyer  vitm  scelerisque  purus  ;  and  in  men- 
tioning the  fact  of  Mr.  Arnold  having  sent  him  a  copy  of 
"  Hero  and  Leander  " — merum  sal  he  defines  it — says,  "  I 
never  meet  this  excellent  person,  but  our  mutual  respect 


Friends^  Fautors^  and  Favorites.  399 

remains  unchanged  ;  and  I  often  see  in  7^e  Telegraph  al- 
lusions and  passing  illustrations  that  show  me  how  well 
he  has  read,  and  understood,  my  works."  Mr.  Greenwood, 
erst  of  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  gave  him  a  place  in  his  col- 
umns on  more  than  one  occasion,  and  their  intercourse  was 
agreeable  and  cordial. 

He  dubbed  him  "  a  most  intelligent  and  business  gentle- 
man." George  Lewes,  on  one  occasion,  wrote,  "  An  article 
by  you  that  wouldn't  be  worth  printing  would  be  a  curios- 
ity in  its  way — it  must  be  so  infernally  wrong."  Mr.  John 
Oxenford  he  describes  "as  a  very  genial  companion;"  and 
he  displayed  his  esteem  for  John  Forster  by  preserving  his 
autograph,  as  also  that  of  Mr.  Sutherland  Edwards.  Never- 
theless, although  he  elected  to  inscribe  along  with  the 
more  exact  designations,  dramatist  and  novelist,  that  also 
of  journalist  on  his  tombstone,  he  never  fraternized  large- 
ly with  the  press-gang.  Politics,  and,  indeed,  political  men, 
failed  to  interest  him.  His  was  not  the  type  of  mind  to 
stomach  compromises  or  to  tolerate  party  manoeuvres; 
hence  his  impatience  of  home  politics — indeed,  he  was  far 
more  affected  by  those  of  the  United  States;  and  it  is  quite 
the  case  that  none  were  more  welcome  at  Albert  Gate  than 
Americans.  He  defined  Reverdy  Johnson  as  "  a  just  man ;" 
wrote  warmly  of  Dr.  Russell  Lowell,  and  was  ever  charmed 
by  the  society  of  his  distant  cousin,  General  Meredith 
Read,  of  the  XT.  S.  Legation  at  Athens. 

The  force  of  circumstances,  no  less  than  inclination, 
brought  him  into  close  connection  with  the  dramatic  pro- 
fession. Mrs.  Seymour's  personal  friends  were  all,  of 
either  sex,  wearers  of  the  sock  and  buskin.  They  thronged 
her  portion  of  the  Albert  Gate  home ;  and  generally,  though 
not  invariably,  were  acceptable  to  its  master.  Devoted  to 
the  drama,  he  could  but  assimilate  up  to  a  certain  point 


400  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade, 

with  its  exponents.  Yet,  to  be  strictly  truthful,  even 
these  very  charming  people  could  bore  him.  "It's  all 
very  well,"  he  said,  apropos  of  his  histrionic  friends,  "  if 
you  will  be  content  to  sit  by  the  hour  and  listen  to  the 
record  of  their  triumphs,  then  they  are  delighted  with 
you."  In  extenuation  of  this  speech  we  may  add  that  he 
was  too  easily  bored,  and  not  seldom  went  off  into  a  brown 
study,  leaving  the  individual  addressing  him  to  run  on,  and 
run  down,  d  discretion.  The  habit  of  total  self-abstrac- 
tion had  become  rooted  ;  and  often  when  an  auditor  con- 
demned his  inattention  as  rude,  he  could  not  help  himself. 
It  required  a  woman,  and  one  with  a  well-stored  mind,  a 
versatile  tongue,  and  quick  sympathy,  such  as  Miss  Brad- 
don  (Mrs.  John  Maxwell),  to  hold  his  attention  for  any 
length  of  time  ;  and  there  were  a  few  —  a  very  few  mem- 
bers of  the  theatrical  profession  thus  endowed,  whose  com- 
pany was  to  him  supremely  grateful. 

Among  them  we  may  mention  first,  and  most  particu- 
larly, the  two  gifted  sisters,  Kate  and  Ellen  Terry.  The 
latter  he  regarded  almost  in  the  light  of  a  daughter ;  on 
the  former  he  lavished  praise,  such  as  in  his  younger  clays 
he  would  have  reserved  solely  for  Mrs.  Stirling.  This  is 
his  deliverance  on  the  elder  sister : 

•'  The  sweetest,  tenderest,  and  most  intelligent  actress 
of  the  day.  Young  in  years,  but  old  in  experience,  and 
fuller  of  talent  than  ever  an  egg  was  of  meat.  She  shone 
most,  to  my  mind,  in  modern  characters,  and  her  forte  lay 
in  the  pathetic.  She  represented  with  great  truth  all  fem- 
inine sorrows.  I  have  seen  actresses  with  more  fire,  but 
none  to  equal  her  in  sweet  and  gentle  pathos.  The  mo- 
ment she  stepped  on  the  stage  the  manly  breast  took  a 
keen  interest  in  her.  I  had  only  twice  the  good-fortune  to 
do  business  with  her.     Aged  thirteen  she  played  Joliquet 


Friends,  Fautors,  and  Favorites.  401 

in  *  The  Courier  of  Lyons,'  and  Dora  in  my  poetical  drama 
was  her  last  creation.  She  played  the  two  parts  to  abso- 
lute perfection.  In  *  Dora '  she  sang  '  The  Brook '  to  her 
dying  lover;  broke  down  in  the  middle  of  the  words, '  For 
men  may  come  and  men  may  go' — shed  real  tears,  and 
then  by  an  ejffort  finished  the  song.  This  was  genius.  She 
had  little  voice,  but  by  dint  of  brains  far  outsang  the 
operatic  singers.  Her  face  not  remarkably  pretty  in  abso- 
lute repose,  but  beautiful  under  the  illumination  of  expres- 
sion. Dora,  terrified  by  her  uncle's  violence,  swoons  away 
at  last.  Miss  Terry  did  this  with  such  absolute  truth  in 
all  the  details  that  I  went  behind  the  scene  one  night  to 
watch  her  more  closely.  But  if  I  had  gone  with  a  micro- 
scope this  honest  and  careful  artist  would  have  borne  the 
test — it  was  quite  indistinguishable  from  a  real  faint;  and 
the  little  hysterical  sobs  with  which  she  came  to,  and  then 
the  gentle  weeping,  and  the  dovelike  way  she  said, '  His 
hard  words  frightened  me  so,'  was  infinitely  feminine  and 
lovable.  At  twenty -six  years  of  age  she  married  Mr. 
Arthur  Lewis,  and  left  the  stage  forever. 

"  We  had  her  on  the  boards,  though,  in  ISYO.  I  pro- 
duced the  *Malade  Imaginaire.'  We  got  Kate  to  rehearsal, 
and  after  rehearsal  she  gave  me  her  ideas  in  my  room; 
and  in  her  excitement  pulled  me  all  down  the  room, 
with  amazing  vigor,  I  remember.  This  young  lady 
attends  the  theatre  constantly  on  first  nights,  and  the 
sight  of  her  face  always  gives  me  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 
Such  is  the  power  of  association,  set  agoing  by  memory 
of  her  rare  talent  and  intelligence.  She  was  an  actress 
who  never  whined.  Now,  the  women  all  whine  upon  the 
stage." 

Miss  Ellen  Terry  has  assumed  all  the  laurels  her  clever 
sister  gathered,  and  added  withal  to  them  more  than  one 


402  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

crown  of  her  own.  She  has  played  in  two  hemispheres  as 
the  representative  actress  of  England,  her  genius  having 
commanded  the  generous,  if  not  always  ungrudging,  plau- 
dits of  our  intelligent  and  hypercritical  American  cousins. 
The  following  paragraph  of  Charles  Reade's  catalogue 
raisonnee  was  penned  before  this  gi*eat  artist  had  attained 
her  zenith,  and  at  a  time  when  she  was  overshadowed  by 
her  elder  sister.  Its  strain  is  that  which  might  be  applied 
to  a  clever  debutante  of  tender  years,  who  regarded  the 
white-haired  dramatist  as  her  quasi-father,  and,  indeed,  ad- 
dressed him  playfully  as  such. 

"  Yes,  dear  papa,"  she  wrote,  "  I  hope  to  be  with  you 
to-morrow  at  dinner.  Thank  you  for  saying  I  may  come. 
Most  affectionately  your  Ellen  Terry. 

"  Love  to  Mrs.  Seymour." 

Whereupon  Charles  Reade,  in  giving  this  pretty  billet 
a  niche  in  his  guard-book,  appends  this  comment : 

"Elleit  Terry.  A  young  lady  highly  gifted  with 
what  Voltaire  justly  calls  le  grand  art  deplaire.  She  was 
a  very  promising  actress — married  young  to  Mr.  Watt  the 
painter.  Unfortunate  differences  ended  in  a  separation, 
and  instead  of  returning  to  the  stage  she  wasted  some 
years  in  the  country.  In  1873  I  coaxed  her  back  to  play 
Philippa  at  the  Queen's  Theatre,  and  she  was  afterwards 
my  leading  actress  in  a  provincial  tour.  She  played  Helen 
Rolleston  very  finely  "  ("FoulPlay").  "In  1875engagedto 
play  Portia  at  the  Prince  of  Wales'  Theatre  ;  and  her  per- 
formance is  the  principal  histrionic  attraction,  the  Shylock 
of  Mr.  Coghlan  being  considered  somewhat  slow  and  mo- 
notonous. 

"  Ellen  Terry  is  an  enigma.  Her  eyes  are  pale,  her  nose 
rather  long,  her  mouth  nothing  particular.     Complexion 


Friends,  Fautors,  and  Favorites.  403 

a  delicate  brick-dust,  her  hair  rather  like  tow.  Yet  some- 
how she  is  heaictiful.  Her  expression  kills  any  pretty  face 
you  see  beside  her.  Her  figure  is  lean  and  bony,  her  hand 
masculine  in  size  and  form.  Yet  she  is  a  pattern  of  fawn- 
like grace,  whether  in  movement  or  repose.  Grace  per- 
vades the  hussy.  In  character  impulsive,  intelligent,  weak, 
hysterical — in  short,  all  that  is  abominable  and  charming 
in  woman. 

"  DIALOGUE, 

"  Ellen  Terry.  *  And  who  is  your  leading  lady  now — 
that  I  may  hate  her  ?' 

"  Charles  Reade.    *  Miss ' 

"Ellen  Terry  (rubbing  her  hands).  'Oh,  I'm  so 
pleased.    SJie  can  give  you  a  good  hiding.    She  will  too !' " 

Again  : 

"  Ellen  Terry  is  a  very  charming  actress.  I  see  through 
and  through  her.  Yet  she  pleases  me  all  the  same.  Little 
duck !" 

It  was  a  decided  misfortune  for  the  success  of  Charles 
Read e's later  dramas,  more  particularly  "Drink" — whereof 
more  anon — that  he  was  unable  to  secure  the  services  of 
this  lady,  whose  devotion  to  him  was  indeed  filial,  whose 
capacity  for  the  creation  of  character  is  unrivalled.  That* 
was  not  to  be.  She  had  already  assumed  the  foremost  po- 
sition on  the  stage,  and  had  greater  aims  to  fulfil.  But 
that  she  never  faltered  in  her  regard  for  her  "  Papa-in-art " 
must  ever  be  a  subject  of  gratulation  to  those  who,  like 
ourselves,  reverence  his  memory;  the  more  so,  because  he 
must  often  have  tried  her  temper  when  she  was  his  lead- 
ing lady,  for  in  matters  of  stage  management  he  was  a 
tyrannical  disciplinarian.  For  all  that,  the  man  and  the 
woman  of  genius  learned  to  esteem  each  other;  and  he 


404  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

watched  her  upward  career,  not  merely  with  pleasxire,  bnt 
with  a  sort  of  paternal  pride. 

It  will  go  without  the  saying  that  the  creator  of  that 
superb  part,  "  Peg  "Woffington,"  felt  no  small  indebted- 
ness to  the  lady,  who,  malgre  an  inevitable  facial  dissimi- 
larity to  the  Irish  actress  of  history,  enacted  the  part 
sympathetically,  and  with  rare  fascination.  Below  a  very 
natural  and  sweet  letter  of  hers,  ending  with  a  cordial 
"  God  bless  you !"  Charles  Reade  has  inscribed  these 
words,  "Mrs.  Bancroft  (Marie  Wilton),  a  gifted  and 
amiable  artist,  who  in  this  letter  makes  too  much  of  my 
friendliness,  which  both  she  and  her  husband  had  so  richly 
earned  by  their  kindness  and  courtesy  to  me."  On  another 
page  in  the  same  volume  is  a  cordial  note  from  Air.  Ban- 
croft, which  the  recipient  retained  for  the  writer's  sake. 

A  prime  favorite  with  Charles  Reade  was  that  most 
vivacious  and  sparkling  of  comedians,  Mrs.  John  Wood. 
He  has  a  strong  word  of  commendation  for  this  lady, 
whose  natural  vein  of  fun  oozes  out  at  all  times  and  in 
all  seasons  ;  e.g.,  on  board  the  good  ship  Calabria,  off 
Queenstown,  she  wrote,  "  Tell  Mrs.  Seymour  I  shall  never 
forget  her,  for  I  owe  her  two-and-sixpence ;"  and,  a  few 
lines  further  on,  "  I  have  been  a  little  sick,  and  hope  to 
"  be  more  so."  This  is  his  definition  :  "Mrs.  John  Wood, 
an  actress  with  real  humor,  almost  the  only  one  left  us  by 
burlesque.  Since  writing  this  and  other  letters  to  me,  she 
has  become  a  manager  and  has  played,  inter  alia,  Phoebe 
in  *  Paul  Pry '  with  an  effect  never  attained  before.  Chai*m- 
ingly  droll,  on  the  stage  and  off  it.  Since  writing  this  has 
astonished  the  public  by  her  performance  of  Philippa,  in 
my  drama,  *  The  Wandering  Heir.'  " 

Another  lady  of  sterling  merit  who  obtained  our  author's 
approbation  as  an  artist,  and  his  esteem  on  account  of  her 


J^iendSj  Fautors,  and  Facoriies,  405 

womanly  qualities,  was  Mrs.  Bella  Pateman.  Elsewhere 
he  expressed  his  conviction  that  she  was  destined  to  ad- 
vance to  the  front  rank  of  her  profession  when  as  yet  she 
was  only  a  debutante.  In  his  guard-book  he  writes  of  her 
in  terms  expressive  of  sincere  admiration — indeed,  the  con- 
cluding words  have  themselves  the  significance  of  volumes. 

This  is  what  he  has  to  say :  "  Mbs.  Patemxx.  A  re- 
spectable actress.  The  tender  and  true  affection  between 
her  and  her  worthy  husband  are  beautiful  to  see  in  a  thea- 
tre— That  den  of  lubricity.'^'' 

Last,  but  not  least,  among  Charles  Readers  theatrical 
friends  of  the  fair  sex  must  be  mentioned  the  brightest 
ornament  of  the  profession,  one  whose  genius  and  whose 
virtues  alike  illumine  and  exalt  the  stage,  Mrs.  Kendall. 
Always  gentle  and  playful  with  children,  he  visited  this 
lady's  nursery  at  the  time  when  his  mind  was  absorbed 
with  ambidexterity,  and  essayed  to  teach  the  little  ones 
how  to  use  either  hand  and  arm  indifferently.  The  ex- 
periment of  course  was  futile,  but  the  remembrance  of 
this  professional  lecture  has  lasted  in  Harley  Street  to  this 
very  hour.  Is  it  not  true  that  what  good  men  do— even 
if  it  be  of  dubious  utility — is  destined  to  live  after  them  ? 

Among  Charles  Reade's  theatrical  friends  of  the  sterner 
sex,  the  name  of  Henry  Irving  stands  prominent.  It  was 
his  boast  that  he,  in  the  wilds  of  Manchester — was  the 
original  discoverer  of  this  rare  nugget.  Mr.  Irving  denies 
the  soft  impeachment.  Nevertheless  it  was,  though  erro- 
neous, as  firm  an  article  of  Charles  Readers  belief  as  was 
George  the  Fourth's  in  his  presence  at  Waterloo.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  no  critic  ever  understood  the  great  actor  more 
analytically  than  Charles  Reade.  WTien  speaking  of  his 
series  of  triumphs  at  the  Lyceum,  he  seems  to  us  to  have 
hit  the  very  centre  of  the  gold  when  he  affirmed  that  all 


406  Memoir  of  Charles  Iteade. 

must  be  attributed  to  Mr.  Irving's  presence,  his  magnetic 
power  over  an  audience.  This  potentiality  exists  alike  in 
actors  and  orators  of  the  highest  calibre.  It  is  quite  apart 
from  speech,  for  the  spell  is  cast  before  a  word  is  uttered. 
It  was  noteworthy  especially  in  Samuel  Wilberforce  ;  and 
is  possessed  in  a  high  degree  by  Dr.  Parker.  The  late 
Rev.  Robert  Aitken  was  endowed  with  this  gift  in  so  great 
a  degree  that  before  he  had  spoken  a  dozen  words  his 
suppressed  emotion  seemed  contagious,  and  the  church 
resounded  with  sobs.  It  was  this  sublime  quality  which 
Charles  Reade,  the  most  acute  of  all  observers,  and  not 
the  least  susceptible  of  emotion,  perceived  in  Mr.  Ii-ving, 
before  that  great  artist  was  a  Jcnown  man  /  and  it  was  his 
boast  that  whereas  Tom  Taylor  failed  to  recognize  it,  it 
came  to  him  as  a  revelation.  Needless  to  add  that,  like 
all  lovers  of  the  drama,  he  rejoiced  that  this  country  and 
this  age  should  possess  so  splendid  an  exponent  of  the  form 
of  art  he  loved  so  well.  Mr.  Irving's  letters  to  him  were 
preseiTcd  religiously,  as  precious  treasures. 

We  have  already  adverted  to  his  love  and  respect  for 
Mr.  Henry  Neville.  There  was,  apart  from  the  stage, 
much  to  evoke  both  sentiments.  Those  who  have  perused 
these  pages  must  have  learned,  if  they  knew  it  not  before, 
that  Charles  Reade  was  pre-eminently  both  a  man  and  a 
lover  of  art.  Mr.  Neville  was  here  his  alter  ego.  He  is 
an  enthusiastic  volunteer,  and  had  he  been  a  soldier  would 
have  adorned  the  profession  of  arms.  He  is  also  a  draughts- 
man of  no  mean  capacity,  and  thus  also  was  in  harmony 
with  one  who  boasted  himself  a  connoisseur  of  pictures  as 
well  as  of  violins.  It  was  a  singular  coincidence  that  the 
descendant  of  the  Ipsden  smith — and  they  had  a  grand 
forge  there  in  the  olden  days,  when  the  beechen  logs  served 
for  fuel  and  coal  was  a  luxury — should  have  set  manly 


Friends f  Fautors,  and  Favorites.  407 

Henry  Neville  to  forge  a  blade  on  the  stage,  and  perhaps 
himself  have  instructed  him  how  to  go  to  work.  Certainly, 
not  merely  '  Put  Yourself  in  His  Place,'  but  '  Sera  Nim- 
quam '  also,  owed  much  to  this  same  sterling  artist — a  debt 
Charles  Reade  was  ever  ready  to  acknowledge  in  full. 

Mr.  Charles  "Warner  and  Mr.  J.  L.  Toole  were  both 
claimed  by  our  author  as,  if  we  may  put  it  so,  his  selec- 
tions. The  former  may  be  termed  fairly  one  of  the  big- 
gest trumps  a  dramatist  ever  held  in  his  hand.  He  im- 
parted life,  vigor,  and  romance  to  the  character  of  Tom 
Robinson,  and  as  Coupeau  was  phenomenal ;  indeed,  he 
not  only  created  the  character,  but  saved  Charles  Reade's 
adaptation  of  '  J^Assommoir.^  As  a  small  token  or  re- 
minder of  their  joint  success  the  author  gave"  the  actor  a 
cup  bearing  the  inscription,  *' IToc  Carolo  Carolus  frater 
in  arte  dediV  They  were  in  truth  fratres  fratcrrimi ;  yet 
at  the  outset  the  author  felt  a  little  bit  piqued.  "  Let 
them  praise  Charley  Warner  as  much  as  they  will,"  he 
pleaded,  "  but  it  is  not  quite  fair  altogether  to  ignore 
Charley  Reade." 

"Whether  Mr.  Toole  was  indebted  to  Charles  Reade  for 
sponsorship  is  not  quite  so  clear.  That  gentleman's  first 
London  engagement  was  under  Mrs.  Seymour  at  the  St. 
James'  Theatre,  so  that  it  would  seem  likely  that  the 
manageress  may  have  been  influenced  by  the  judgment 
of  her  partner  in  theatrical  speculation.  Mr.  Toole  made 
a  success  in  "  Honor  Before  Titles,"  one  of  our  author's  least 
known  dramas  ;  and  played  Triplet  to  Mrs.  Seymour's 
Peg  "Wofiington,  at  Edinburgh.  He  writes,  "  I  knew 
Mr.  Charles  Reade  very  well,  and  liked  him  very  much, 
and  I  think  he  liked  me.  He  was  greatly  in  earnest  in 
all  his  works,  and  once  brought  an  action  for  libel  against 
the  3forning  Advertiser,  respecting  one  of  his  plays  called 


408  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

*  Shilly-shally.'  He  was  very  anxious  for  me  to  appear  in 
the  witness-box,  and  (/ive  evidence  in  the  dress  of  the  char- 
acter I  acted,  and  act  the  scene  before  the  judge  and  jury  ! 
Of  course  I  did  not  do  so."  The  more's  the  pity,  we  can 
but  remark.  The  deadly-dulness  of  the  bar  witticisms 
would  have  been  pleasantly  relieved  by  the  apparition  of 
Mr.  Toole  in  panoply. 

The  circumstances  in  connection  with  a  letter  from  Mr. 
Wilson  Barrett  to  Charles  Reade  happen  to  be  of  so  deli- 
cate a  nature — relating  in  fact  to  a  money  question — that 
we  feel  ourselves  unable  to  publish  it.  Yet  we  can  but 
regret  our  inability  to  do  so,  for  assuredly  a  more  mag- 
nanimous and  chivalrous  communication  from  manager  to 
author  was  never  penned.  This  great  actor  had  barely 
attained  his  zenith  when  the  terrible  blow  descended  that 
shattered  the  artistic  life  of  Charles  Reade.  It  was  as  a 
man,  and  a  gentleman  therefore,  that  he  knew  Mr.  Wilson 
Barrett  for  the  most  part — ^yet  he  lived  to  see  him  play 
and  appreciate  his  genius. 

There  remain  two  histrionic  celebrities,  each  of  whom, 
owing  to  their  Yankee  flavor,  interested  Charles  Reade. 
Mr.  Jefferson  he  styles  "a  distinguished  American  actor, 
known  here  by  his  personation  of  '  Rip  Yan  Winkle ' — 
also  a  very  intelligent  man  off  the  stage."  Of  Mr.  Sothern, 
representative  of  Lord  Dundreary,  etc.,  he  writes,  "  This 
gentleman  is  a  dry  humorist.  I  believe  he  professes  to 
mesmerize  ;  and,  in  imitation  of  Davenport  Brothers,  he 
can  get  his  hands  out  of  any  knot  I  can  tie.  His  Dun- 
dreary is  true  comedy,  not  farce,  as  fools  fancy.  He  is  as 
grave  as  a  judge  over  it,  and  in  that  excellent  quality  a 
successor  to  Liston.  He  plays  nothing  downright  ill,  ex- 
cept his  first  act  of  '  David  Garrick.'  His  immobility  of 
countenance  during  the  scene  with  the  merchant  is  false 


Friends,  Fautora,  a/nd  Favorites.  409 

and  feeble  in  itself,  and  singularly  out  of  character — David 
being  histoi-ically  famous  for  mobility  of  countenance  and 
varying  expression ;  whereas  this  actor  plays  that  scene 
with  the  face  of  a  wooden  dolt,  though  the  lines  give  him 
every  opportunity  of  changing  his  expression  from  grave 
to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe." 

Space  forbids  our  handling  ia  detail  every  member  of 
that  brilliant  theatrical  circle  whereof  Charles  Reade 
might  have  boasted,  quorum  pars  magna  fui.  He 
writhed  under  Mr.  Burnand's  euphuistic  satire,  yet  pre- 
served a  genial  epistle  of  his,  commencing  with  "  No 
Larks,"  as  a  friendly  memory  of  the  buried  hatchet. 
Boddam  Donne  he  defines  as  a  ripe  scholar  and  a  good 
friend;  Miss  Furtado  he  praises  for  her  beauty,  but  blames 
for  an  excessive  tremolo.  Horace  Wigan  earned  the  epi- 
thet "a  dry  old  chip;"  on  Benjamin  Webster  he  was  even 
more  severe:  "an  admirable  actor,"  he  calls  him,  "when 
he  happens  to  have  studied  the  words."  To  Mr.  John 
Clayton  he  is  more  civil:  "Actor,  and  a  promising  one. 
This  young  man  gets  up  wonderfully  well.  As  a  rule 
that  part  of  the  art  is  not  learned  early  in  an  actor's  ca- 
reer. I  declare  that  he  must  be  a  painter,  he  varies  his 
head  and  face  so  finely."  Miss  Ada  Cavendish  is  "  an 
actress  of  some  power,  very  handsome,  a  clever  woman." 
Mr.  Kendall,  "a  good  actor."  Mr.  R.  Buchanan,  "a  very 
clever  fellow."  Of  Mr.  Hare  he  always  spoke  as  of  the 
very  truest  gentleman  who  ever  enacted  the  role  of  gen- 
tleman on  the  stage ;  and,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  he 
avowed  himself  an  admirer  of  that  brilliant  yet  brief  me- 
teor. Miss  Ada  Isaacs  Menken,  as  thus  :  "  A  clever  woman, 
with  beautiful  eyes — very  dark  blue.  A  bad  actress,  but 
made  a  hit  by  playing  Mazeppa  in  tights.  She  played  one 
scene  in  *  Black-eyed  Susan '  with  true  feeling.  A  triga- 
18 


410  Memoir  of  Charles  Beade. 

mist,  or  quadrigamist,  her  last  husband,  I  believe,  was 
John  Ileenan,  the  prize-fighter.  I  saw  him  fight  Tom 
King.  Menken  talked  well  and  was  very  intelligent.  She 
spoiled  her  looks  off  the  stage  with  white  lead,  or  what- 
ever it  is  these  idiots  of  women  wear.  She  did  not  rouge, 
but  played  some  devilry  with  her  glorious  eyes,  which 
altogether  made  her  spectral.  She  wrote  poetry.  It  was 
as  bad  as  other  people's — would  have  been  worse  if  it 
could.  Mequiescat  in  pace.  Goodish  heart.  Loose  con- 
duct.    Gone !" 

A  lover  of  pictures,  Charles  Reade  was  perhaps  too  dog- 
matic in  his  ideas  to  assimilate  much  with  painters.  He 
has  written  of  Sir  Frederick  Leighton  that  he  is  one  of 
the  best-read  men  of  the  age.  He  described  Sir  J.  E. 
Millais  as  the  English  Titian,  and  Mr.  O'Neill  won  his  fa- 
vor. In  his  last  years  he  gave  a  commission  to  an  Italian 
lady  to  paint — on  the  lines  of  Gainesborough's  Blue-boy 
— a  portrait  of  his  great  nephew.  Master  Scott  Reade;  and 
was  annoyed  that  the  hanging  committee  failed  to  recog- 
nize its  merit.  Frankly,  he  was  by  no  means  easy  for  a 
painter  to  please,  and  in  his  musical  notions  approximated 
Philistinism.  He  cared  for  none  but  broad  effects,  and 
upheld  Handel  as  the  Shakespeare  of  music.  Art,  from 
his  point  of  view,  is  not  for  higher  natures,  but  for  all ; 
and  what  ti'anscends  the  comprehension  of  the  average 
human  being  and  fails  therefore  to  influence,  was,  from 
his  point  of  view,  valueless.  Hence  he  underrated  the 
genius  of  composers,  and  had  few  musical  friends. 

Victor  Hugo  appreciated  his  genius,  none  the  less,  per- 
haps, because  he  wrote  in  French  as  well  as  in  English,  so 
also  did  Brisebarre,  Maquet,  and  Zola.  In  his  guard-book 
is  a  very  touching  letter  from  Hugo,  ending,  "Je  saltie 
yotre  noble  esprit."    In  this  volume  also  he  cherished  the 


FriendSy  Fautors J  and  Favorites.  41 1 

autographs  of  "my  invaluable  friend,"  Rev.  J.  Gibson, 
minister  of  Kirkhope,  of  Hain  Friswell,  with  a  sketch  of 
Mrs.  Seymour,  Lords  Hartington  and  Newry,  Mr.  W.  H. 
Smith,  the  poet  Southey,  Lord  Townshend — a  very  benev- 
olent gentleman — Artemus  Ward,  Mr.  Smith — "  The  Prince 
of  Publishers  " — Dean  Gaisford,  Mr.  Hollingshead,  Arch- 
bishop Sumner,  Mr.  James  Fields,  of  Boston — "  and  a  very 
clever  writer,  let  me  tell  you  " — General  Meredith  Read 
— "  my  American  cousin  " — James  Lambert — "  The  Plero 
and  the  Martyr  " — Mr.  John  Blackwood,  Miss  Dickens,  Mr. 
Dicey,  George  Vining,  Mrs.  Charles  Matthews,  Buckstone, 
Bernal  Osborne,  Webster,  Mr.  Trtibner,  "worthy  Mr. 
Plimsoll,  who  deserves  a  civic  crown,"  Baron  Grant,  Al- 
derman Mechi,  Mr.  C.  Thome,  the  American  actor — "  with 
an  admirable  gift  of  representing  suppressed  emotion  " — 
Mr.  Henry  Morford,  an  American  journalist  —  "I  think 
he  once  told  me  he  had  had  eleven  bones  broken,  first  and 
last " — Baron  Tauchnitz,  Mr.  James  Rice,  Shirley  Brooks, 
—  dating  from  "  Noah's  Ark,  second  deluge  " — ^Mrs.  Leh- 
mann,  a  daughter  of  Robert  Chambers — on  the  death  of 
Charles  Dickens  —  Dr.  Bandinel,  the  Bodleian  Librarian 
at  Oxford,  Mr.  Henry  Matthews,  Q.  C,  Alfred  Wigan, 
Mr.  Forbes  Robertson,  Reverdy  Johnson,  Lord  Shaftes- 
bury, and  last,  not  least,  a  letter  from  his  venerable  mother 
in  her  ninetieth  year.  The  book  may  fitly  be  described 
as  a  curiosity  of  epistolary  literature. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

DEAD-SKA  FRUIT. 

It  was  on  a  lovely  June  afternoon  in  1879  that  a  cab 
drove  up  hurriedly  to  the  portal  of  a  house  in  Claverton 
Street,  and  from  thence  emerged  a  tall,  handsome  gentle- 
man, white  bearded,  but  erect  and  picturesque,  bearing  in 
his  hands  several  colossal  volumes.  In  another  minute 
he  had  ascended — rather  breathlessly — the  staircase,  and 
greeted  affectionately  his  niece,  Mrs.  Compton  Reade. 

"You  are  the  musician  of  the  family,"  he  said — this 
lady  studied  under  Otto  Goldsmith  at  the  Royal  Acade- 

y — "  and  I  have  come  to  requisition  your  services." 

The  colossal  volumes  proved  to  be  "Lcs  Chansons  de 
Noel,"  a  superb  collection  of  all  the  Yuletide  music  of 
Fair  France,  carols,  whose  origin  is  lost  in  the  obscurity 
of  remote  ages,  tender,  sweet,  and  romantic,  if  at  times 
crude  as  the  Gregorian  plain-song  or  the  ancient  Greek 
modes. 

"  We  are  to  have  a  carol  sung  in  the  snow,"  he  said, 
"with  harp  accompaniment;  and  now  to  select  one." 

The  reference,  we  need  not  add,  was  to  his  forthcoming 
drama,  entitled  "  Drink "  —  already  in  rehearsal  at  the 
Princess'  Theatre. 

His  niece's  fingers  and  wits  were  soon  at  work.  To 
make  a  selection  from  some  hundreds  of  pastoral  chan- 
sons^ was  no  easy  task.  A  quick  instinct,  however,  and 
an  eye  trained  to  read  music  at  sight,  rapidly  winnowed 


Dead-Sea  Fruit.  413 

those  utterly  unsuitable,  whether  from  peculiarity  of 
rhythm  or  lack  of  melody.  After  about  three  hours'  stiff 
work  the  choice  was  reduced  to  three,  and  eventually  a 
strain  selected,  which,  though  simple,  has  all  the  intense 
charm  of  true  pathos. 

"  The  very  thing,"  cried  Charles  Reade,  ecstatically. 

It  was  a  curious  coincidence  that  Gounod's  "Messe 
Solennelle  "  was  at  the  moment  unknown  in  this  country, 
if  written  at  all.  One  among  the  gems — perhaps  the  gem 
par  excellence  of  that  sublime  composition,  is  "  The  Bene- 
dictus ;"  and  we  need  say  no  more  than  that  the  resem- 
blance between  that  dulcet  melody  and  the  "  Chanson  de 
Noel "  selected  by  Mrs.  Compton  Reade  for  the  snow 
scene  in  "  Drink  "  is,  to  say  the  least,  remarkable. 

Having  further  begged  for  a  march  from  her  facile  pen 
for  the  entr'acte  music,  Charles  Reade  insisted  that  his 
niece  should  attend  the  final  rehearsal.  "  They  will  make 
a  bungle  of  it  if  they  can,"  he  pleaded.  Accordingly  we 
all  appeared  at  the  Princess'  Theatre  on  the  Saturday 
afternoon,  the  piece  being  set  down  for  Whit-Monday. 
There  was  the  usual  confusion :  the  property-man  invis- 
ible ;  the  minor  players,  apparently,  by  no  means  perfect 
in  their  parts ;  positions  to  be  studied ;  while  the  lessee 
wanted  a  harmonium  in  lieu  of  a  harp,  which  would  have 
wrecked  the  effect  of  our  lovely  "  Chanson  de  Noel."  They 
manage  anything  vocal,  outside  the  range  of  noise  and 
clap-trap,  infamously  on  the  stage,  having  no  more  idea 
of  part-singing  than  pigs.  However,  somehow  the  rehear- 
sal was  got  through ;  but  Charles  Reade,  who  dined  with 
us,  seemed  fairly  out  of  spirits. 

"  Seymoar  is  ill,"  he  moaned,  "  and  for  the  first  time 
can't  be  present  at  my  first  night.    A  bad  omen !" 

We  who  had  witnessed  what  Mr.  Warner  could  do,  and 


414  Memoir  of  Charles  Beade. 

foresaw  the  surprise  in  store  for  the  audience,  tried  to 
cheer  him.     In  vain. 

Monday  came.  The  house  was  crammed — never  fuller, 
if  so  full.  There  had  been  a  little  difference  behind  the 
scenes  between  the  two  ladies  who,  on  the  lines  of  the 
play,  were  bound  to  souse  each  other  in  the  wash-house 
•scene,  neither  being  ardently  ambitious  of  a  drenching, 
yet  each  feeling  morally  convinced  that  the  other  ought 
to  submit  to  immersion.  If  both  these  admirable  people 
shirked  that  terrible  ordeal,  the  curtain  would  fall  for  the 
first  act  on  a  coup  manque.  We  watched  with  breathless 
interest. 

Jam  satis.  One  of  them  escaped  the  soapsuds,  but  the 
other  caught  her  avalanche  full.  That  was  enough  for 
the  gallery.  The  spectacle  of  one  of  her  majesty's  ser- 
vants dripping  on  the  stage  with  real  water  exhilarated  a 
Whit-Monday  gallery.     There  was  a  roar  for  encore. 

From  that  point  the  success  of  the  play  was  assured. 
The  audience  having  got  itself  into  a  good  temper,  be- 
came first  fascinated,  then  thrilled;  and  when  Mr.  Warner 
enacted  the  incurable  drunkard  battling  with  temptation, 
yet  ever  yielding,  and  at  last  descending,  as  it  were,  to  a 
living  hell,  every  one  felt  that  this  was  not  a  play  merely 
for  laughter — it  was  horrible  to  the  verge  of  disgust ;  but 
its  realism  approached  the  sublime. 

Those  who  had  seen  "  L'Assommoir "  at  the  Ambigu 
Theatre,  confessed  at  once  that  the  English  adapter,  in 
eliminating  three  fourths  of  the  filth,  had  idealized  mag- 
nificently the  French  author's  drama;  and  when  Mr.  Gooch, 
the  lessee,  came  on  to  tell  how  this  version  was  neither  a 
piracy  nor  a  theft,  but  produced  with  the  sanction  of  M. 
Zola,  who  shared  in  the  results,  there  remained  nothing  to 
dim  the  lustre  of  the  triumph,  except  the  one  sad  fact  of 


Dead-Sea  Fruit.  416 

Mrs.  Seymour's  absence,  and  that  to  Charles  Reade  spoiled 
it  all.  At  the  moment  he  may  have  striven  to  lull  his  ap- 
prehensions; yet  because  his  great  friend  was  lying  ill  he 
could  not  enjoy  it.  "  Drink  "  was  infinitely  his  greatest 
success  in  the  metropolis,  from  a  pecuniary  point  of  view. 
Thousands  came  rolling  in  where  before  he  had  received 
but  tens.  He  recouped  himself  for  a  fraction  of  those  vast 
losses  by  theatrical  speculation  which  he  himself  set  down 
at  an  almost  fabulous  total,  for  he  shared  the  venture  with 
Mr.  Gooch,  who  proved  a  most  excellent  partner.  But  the 
turn  of  the  wheel  came  too  late.  It  seemed  almost  to 
mock  his  misery. 

More  than  a  year  previous  to  this  date — indeed,  as  early 
as  March,  1878 — we  find  in  his  diary  a  long  account  of 
Mrs.  Seymour's  ailments.  "  I  have  nearly  lost  poor  Sey- 
mour," he  writes, "  by  internal  gout.  She  had  a  month 
of  agony  followed  by  long  prostration.  It  appears  to  have 
been  caused  by  many  worries,  and  by  applying  cold  water 
to  an  attack  of  podagra.  The  gout  was  cured  thereby  in 
a  few  hours,  but  the  malady  resented  this  and  crept  to  the 
vitals.  Her  predecessor,  Betterton,  is  said  to  have  killed 
himself  in  forty-eight  hours  by  this  treatment.  He  was 
implored  to  play  for  some  friend's  benefit  while  laboring 
under  gout — got  rid  of  it  with  cold  water,  acted,  and  died. 

"Seymour's  natural  inability  to  eat  was  against  her. 
She  was  exhausted  by  pain,  and  not  supported  by  nutri- 
ment. Triedhomojopathy  first;  then  allopathy.  The  gout 
was  on  one  occasion  relieved  by  belladonna,  administered 
by  me,  at  her  request,  not  in  a  large  dose. 

"  She  was  attended  twice  a  day  by  Quain,  who  refused 
all  fee.  Her  illness  showed  this,  at  all  events,  what  love 
and  respect  she  is  held  in  by  all  who  know  her,  women  es- 
pecially, who  love  her  because  she  is  singularly  free  from 


41d  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

the  vices  of  her  sex,  vanity,  and  malicious  babbling.  I 
took  her  down  to  Brighton,  but  it  did  her  little  good;  in- 
deed, she  had  a  slight  relapse  there.  Since  then  she  has 
had  short  attacks,  but  she  has  returned  to  the  theatre." 

By  the  summer  of  18V9  this  terrible  disease,  warded  off 
only  by  violent  medicines  of  the  kind  that  cure  only  to 
kill,  had  gained  upon  her.  If  she  had  had  her  way  it  is 
tolerably  certain  that  "  Drink  "  would  neither  have  been 
written  nor  played;  and  it  was  her  scepticism  as  regards 
its  success  that  helped  to  damp  Charles  Reade's  spirits. 
When,  moreover,  the  verdict  went  in  favor  of  the  play 
unanimously,  she  was  too  ill  to  rejoice.  Her  countenance 
changed.  The  intense  sufferings  she  underwent  warned 
her  of  the  approaching  end.  There  was  life  in  her  body, 
but  no  hope. 

The  writer  of  these  lines  essayed  to  cheer  her — albeit 
ineffectually.  She  begged  for  new-laid  eggs  from  the 
country — and  these  he  was  able  to  bring  her — yet  when 
they  came  she  could  not  touch  them. 

"  She  is  a  dying  woman,"  moaned  Charles  Reade — in 
her  hearing. 

That,  alas,  was  true. 

For  a  long  time  past  this  lady,  to  the  outside  world  a 
Bohemian  pure  and  simple,  had  been  engaged  in  works  of 
charity — unknown  to  a  soul  but  herself.  She  had  saved 
a  little  money;  and,  oddly  enough,  though  never  a  church- 
goer, sympathized  very  acutely  with  the  struggles  of  the 
inferior  clergy — as  tliey  are  termed,  work  in  this  world 
being  a  symptom  of  inferiority — of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, who  were  laboring  among  the  London  poor  on  sti- 
pends such  as  noblemen's  flunkeys  would  have  rejected 
with  contempt.  She  had  a  very  sharp  eye  of  her  own, 
and  could  tell  accurately  whether  a  man  in  a  black  coat 


Dead-Sea  Fruit.  417 

was  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing,  or  genuine;  and  her  plan 
was  to  forward  small  sums — all  she  could  afford — anony- 
mously to  the  latter  variety  of  parson.  Like  many  of  her 
type  she  focussed  her  mind's  eye  on  the  philanthropic  as- 
pect of  Christianity,  and  further  deemed  the  poor  gentle- 
man who  endures  in  silence  more  worthy  of  support  than 
the  howling  proletarian  or  yelping  mendicant.  Perhaps 
she  was  in  a  measure  right — albeit  charity  should  know 
no  class.  Certainly  her  benevolence  did  her  great  credit, 
and  afforded  indirect  evidence  of  a  latent  belief  in  re- 
ligious principles,  wherewith  otherwise  she  had  but  little 
affinity.  Feeling  the  sands  running  out,  and  possibly  re- 
membering with  some  compunction  the  uncompromising 
verities  enforced  by  her  saintly  brother-in-law,  the  minis- 
ter of  Kirkhope,  she  startled  yet  gratified  Charles  Reade 
by  requesting  him  to  bring  a  clergyman  to  her  bed- 
side. 

Here,  however,  a  difficulty  presented  itself  in  limine. 
They  did  not  know  their  vicar,  and  the  probabilities  were 
strongly  against  a  total  stranger  bearing  comfort  to  a  dy- 
ing woman.  At  this  juncture  a  happy  thought  flashed 
across  Charles  Reade's  mind.  He  had  a  slight  acquaint- 
ance with  the  Vicar  of  Willesden.  In  him  he  recognized 
a  gentleman  of  warm  sympathies  and  liberal,  though 
sti-ictly  orthodox,  views.     Thither  he  went  as  a  suppliant. 

Not  in  vain.  Mr.  Wharton  was  compelled,  by  the  rule 
of  the  Church,  to  ask  the  permission  of  the  incumbent,  in 
whose  parish  Albert  Gate  is  situate,  to  visit  Mrs.  Seymour. 
This  being  promptly  and  kindly  given,  the  dying  sufferer 
was  consoled  in  her  last  moments  by  a  gentle  and  earnest 
voice.  With  her  Charles  Reade  received  the  Sacrament 
for  the  first  time  after  a  lapse  of  many  years;  and  she 
passed  away  calmly,  her  last  words  being  commendatory 


418  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

of  those  among  Charles  Reade's  relatives  who,  in  her  judg- 
ment, loved  him  best. 

It  was  an  awful  blow.  No  words  that  could  be  penned 
are  able  to  describe  its  force  and  intensity.  To  tell  the 
tale  of  the  mighty  agony  of  a  majestic  spirit  would  need 
the  genius  of  an  iEschylus,  or  the  brain  that  could  con- 
ceive a  Lear.  The  man's  mute  dignity  was  heartrending 
to  witness.  His  pathetic  eye  seemed  to  say,  "  Look  at  a 
broken  heart."  Brother  Compton,  his  playmate,  compan- 
ion, and  counsellor,  was  at  once  by  his  side.  Mr.  Listen 
Reade  hurried  across  from  Germany.  We  do  not  exag- 
gerate when  we  affirm  that  the  gravest  anxiety  weighed 
on  all  at  the  moment  as  to  whether  he  would  survive  the 
bitter  ordeal  of  the  funeral,  for  he  was  not  only  stunned 
and  bruised  in  mind,  but  in  body  also  so  out  of  health  as 
to  render  a  collapse  more  than  likely. 

By  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Wharton  a  last  resting-place  for 
Mrs.  Seymour  was  provided  at  Willesden.  She  begged  to 
be  buried  in  a  churchyard,  and  not  in  a  cemetery — a  very 
proper  request,  and  quite  in  consonance  with  common- 
sense,  inasmuch  as  the  future  of  our  cemetei'ies  teems  with 
very  unpleasant  possibilities.  Her  desire  was  of  course 
law,  and  she  lies  undisturbed  at  Willesden. 

The  funeral  demonstrated  precisely  Charles  Reade's  es- 
timate of  her  popularity.  There  were  at  least  six  times 
as  many  theatrical  people  gathered  round  her  grave  as 
around  that  of  Charles  Reade,  five  years  later.  The  whole 
profession  seemed  to  be  present.  She  was  of  course  one  of 
them,  on  the  same  plane;  whereas,  if  we  may  say  so  with- 
out offence,  Charles  Reade  towered  above  them,  as  the  eter- 
nal firmament  above  the  ephemeral  butterfly.  Their  hearts 
were  more  with  her  than  with  him.  She  was  their  com- 
rade, and  it  was  well  they  assembled  en  masse  to  honor  her. 


Dead-Sea  Fruit.  419 

The  scene  was  painful  in  the  extreme.  Supported  by 
the  loving  arm  of  his  brother  Compton,  Charles  Reade 
tottered  behind  the  bier,  his  bosom  heaving  with  sobs,  his 
frame  bent.  He  was  almost  beside  himself  with  emotion; 
and  had  not  his  brother  gripped  him  firmly,  would  have 
flung  himself  on  the  coffin,  for  the  grave  was  open,  and 
the  sarcophagus  of  Mull  granite,  now  shrouding  it,  had 
not  been  erected.  The  writer  has  performed  the  rites  of 
the  Church  many  hundred  times,  yet  never  has  taken  part 
in  a  ceremonial  so  pitiably  tragical.  It  was  curious  to 
note  how  the  actors  and  actresses,  accustomed  as  they  are 
to  simulate  mental  torture,  seemed  to  recoil  from  this  ex- 
hibition of  it  in  stern  reality.  He  passed  through  their 
ranks  —  and  they  were  all  familiar  faces  —  as  one  in  a 
dream — ^rather  we  should  say,  as  one  expecting  to  die. 

Death  all  but  supervened  shortly  afterwards.  The  ac- 
tion of  his  heart  became  irregular,  and  to  such  an  extent 
that,  but  for  the  genius  of  Mr.  Goodsall,  whose  incessant 
care  exceeded  all  praise,  it  must  have  ceased.  His  brother 
shifted  his  quarters  to  Albert  Gate,  acted  as  his  secretary 
and  amanuensis,  strove  gently  to  distract  his  attention 
from  the  open  wound,  and,  as  all  will  testify,  proved  a 
lenitive  influence.  The  drainage,  unfortunately,  of  Albert 
Gate  was  in  so  defective  a  condition  that  he  fell  ill,  and 
his  place  was  subsequently  supplied  by  various  members 
of  the  family.  The  home,  however,  where  in  Mrs.  Sey- 
mour's society  the  sufferer  had  passed  so  many  days  of 
happiness  and  contentment,  was  in  itself  an  aggravation 
of  his  sorrow.  Every  chair,  table,  book,  reminded  him  of 
his  pain ;  and  in  the  end  he  could  bear  the  sight  of  these 
memories  no  more,  and  moved  to  his  brother's  residence 
between  Shepherd's  Bush  and  Acton. 

"  I  have  lost,"  he  writes, "  the  one  creature  who  thought 


420  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

more  of  my  interest,  health,  and  happiness  than  her  own — 
a  poor  old  man  of  sixty-five  !  Unable  to  live  alone  in  the 
house  "where  I  was  once  so  happy  with  her,  and  unable  to 
find  a  companion  I  could  endure  in  her  home,  I  have  for 
a  long  time  slept  at  my  brother's  house  and  only  visited 
my  own  house  for  three  or  four  hours  every  day.  The 
drive  in  and  out  has,  I  think,  been  good  for  my  health ; 
and  the  society  of  my  nieces,  who  are  very  kind,  has  at 
all  events  often  broken  my  deep  sense  of  solitude  and 
utter  desolation.  Even  in  that  house  I  have  many  par- 
oxysms of  grief,  but  I  have  also  intermissions.  This  day 
I  have  mustered  up  resolution  to  sleep  here "  (at  Albert 
Gate).  "I  am  sitting  in  the  studio,  a  large  room,  silent  as 
the  grave,  though  in  the  heart  of  London.  The  great 
simple  fireplace  she  planned  to  heat  this  cold  north  room 
does  its  work  nobly  ;  but,  ah  me  !  Ah  me !  Her  seat  by 
that  fireplace  is  empty,  empty  forever  ! 

"March  16, 1880. — Alone  in  the  world  this  six  months, 
after  pining  to  a  skeleton"  (too  true !)  "for  the  loss  of  my 
darling,  and  two  or  three  ineflFectual  attempts  to  live  in 
the  house  where  she  made  me  happy.  I  come  over  this 
day  from  Coningham  Road  to  try  and  spend  a  night  here. 
My  heart  is  like  lead.  I  no  longer  ignore  God,  as  I  used. 
On  the  contrary,  I  pray  hard,  and  give  money  to  poor  peo- 
ple, and  try  to  be  God's  servant.  But,  oh,  it  is  so  hard, 
and  impalpable,  and  the  world  so  full  of  vanity  by  com- 
parison. 

"  Yet  my  only  true  intermissions  of  misery  have  been 
while  doing  a  little  act  of  good,  or  communing  with  my 
friend,  the  Rev.  Charles  Graham,  who  is  an  Apostle;  and 
I  can  believe  that  God,  pitying  my  tears  and  prayers,  has 
given  me  his  affectionate  friendship  to  console  me  and 
temper  the  wind.     Oh,  to  think  that  for  five-and-twenty 


Dead-Sea  Fruit.  421 

years  I  was  blessed  with  Laura  Seymour,  and  that  now 
for  the  rest  of  my  pilgrimage  she  is  quite,  quite  gone. 
Not  one  look  from  her  sweet  eyes — not  one  smile —  Oh, 
my  heart !  my  heart !  I  am  wretched.  I  have  lost  my 
love  of  the  world.  I  have  not  acquired  the  love  of  God. 
And,  I  have  no  companion.  My  brother  Compton  tried 
to  live  with  me  and  could  not.  The  beastly  drains  made 
him  so  ill ;  he  nearly  died. 

"  My  dogs,  and  the  portrait  of  my  lost  darling — they 
are  all  I  have.  Ah,  would  to  God  I  could  add  that  I  have 
my  Saviour. 

"  I  believe  he  is  here,  and  pities  me,  but  from  want  of 
faith  I  cannot  feel  his  presence.    O  God,  increase  my  faith! 

"Two  great  successes  at  the  Princess'  Theatre — 'Nev- 
er Too  Late  to  Mend '  and  *  Drink ' — have  improved  my 
fortune  ;  but  I  really  think  have  added  to  my  grief — espe- 
cially the  latter,  which  my  darling  never  could  enjoy  for 
pain  and  suffering,  though  she  would  ask  for  the  receipts 
and  be  pleased  in  the  intervals  of  her  pain. 

"My  poor  lamb  has  also  left  me  all  her  savings — my 
tears  stream  afresh  when  I  think  of  it.  Every  shilling  of 
that  sacred  money  is  devoted  to  God  and  the  poor,  and 
even  in  that  cause  it  is  wormwood  and  agony  to  me  to 
spend  it. 

"God's  will  be  done.  I  am  very  wretched;  but,  once 
more,  God's  will  be  done. 

"August  11, 1880. — That  attempt  to  live  on  in  my  own. 
house  failed,  and  I  returned  to  Coningham  Road"  (his 
brother  Compton's  residence)  "  to  sleep. 

"Between  that  date  and  this  I  visited  Ipsden  and  Mar- 
gate, where  God  enabled  me  to  be  of  service  in  spiritual 
things  to  my  dying  brother"  (William).  "  Also  to  St.  Leon- 
ards, where  my  old  friends  the  S e's  received  me  coldly; 


4SS  Memoir  r>f  Charles  Reade. 

and  I  soon  left,  feeling  more  than  ever  that  I  had  lost  my 
one  constant  and  unselfish  friend. 

"I  am  now  making  another  attempt  to  live  here"  (at 
Albert  Gate),  "my  fourth  or  fifth.  I  have  kept  my  diary 
more  regularly  than  this,  and  written  myself  down  the 
poor  reptile  I  am  in  all  that  pertains  to  godliness. 

"I  write  this  in  my  studio.  It  looks  north,  and  is  al- 
ways more  depressing  than  my  drawing-room.  Mem. :  to 
work  in  my  drawing-room,  until  I  can  stand  this  large 
grotto  better. 

"Oct.  16,  1880. — I  remember  that  when  I  was  a  little 
boy  everybody  noticed  my  extraordinary  helplessness. 
My  dear  sister  Julia  noticed  it  particularly  at  Sandgate, 
seeing  how  feebly  I  got  off  the  coach,  like  one  that  ex- 
pected to  be  lifted  down.  Once  I  fell  off  a  coach  into  a 
man's  arms,  as  I  was  getting  up. 

"  Of  late  years  I  used  to  hang  fire  at  any  good  or  useful 
thing,  until  she  helped  and  drove  me.  I  could  not  put  my 
papers  to  rights  on  the  table  without  her  help. 

"I  can't  do  it,  now  she  is  gone,  without  help.  I  begin, 
but  cannot  effect  it.  It  is  the  same  in  the  things  of  God. 
I  wish  in  my  weak  way  to  serve  him,  and  do  good  to  his 
people.  But  I  hang  fire.  I  don't  trouble  about  it.  I 
wait  till  the  deserving  poor  shall  seek  me — which  is  just 
what  the  deserving  poor  don't  do.  Impetuous  in  all  tem- 
pers and  desires,  I  am  so  languid  in  good. 

"  Here  is  all  prepared  for  Laura  Seymour's  dole,  yet  I 
lack  energy  to  go  and  draw  the  money  and  complete. 
Death,  or  loss  of  reason,  will,  I  fear,  take  me  postponing 
some  good  thing.  Why  don't  I  trouble  in  good  acts,  as 
she  did  ? 

"Why?  Because  my  heart  is  not  with  God.  *0h, 
quicken  thou  me  according  to  thy  word!' " 


Dead-Sea  Fruit.  423 

These  sorrowful  extracts  reveal  the  writer's  mind.  In 
the  first  poignant  ecstasy  of  bereavement  he  had  leaned 
helplessly  on  the  brother  who  had  been  throughout  near- 
est and  dearest  to  him.  There  he  found  such  sympathy 
as  was  helpful — so  far,  at  all  events,  as  human  warmth 
can  help  a  broken  heart.  Throughout  the  long  nights  his 
nieces  watched  by  his  bedside,  for  the  paroxysms  he  al- 
ludes to  were  violent  and  overwhelming,  and  would  arouse 
the  entire  household.  The  suggestion  on  the  part  of  one 
who  has  publicly  claimed  the  honor  of  Charles  Reade's 
friendship,  that  he  was  suffering  from  monomania,  may 
be  dismissed  as  inexact  if  not  insulting.  Acute  sorrow 
cannot  be  designated  mania,  even  though  it  be  associated 
with  religious  emotion.  In  evidence  of  this  we  may  point 
to  the  sentence  wherein  the  sufferer  dreads  lest  he  should 
lose  his  reason  —  the  strain  being  so  great.  Such  fear  is 
in  itself  rational,  and  proves  mental  balance.  No  mad- 
man ever  yet  feared  that  he  might  be  going  mad — indeed, 
the  insane  believe  firmly  in  their  sanity.  Here,  as  else- 
where, the  gentleman  in  question  has  forgotten  what  is 
due  to  the  memory  of  one  with  whom  he  is  anxious  to  as- 
sert the  tie  of  friendship. 

It  was  his  brother  Compton  who  introduced  him  to  the 
divine  whom  he  styles  an  apostle.  Opinions  differ;  and 
the  estimate  one  man  adopts  of  another  depends  largely 
on  the  standpoint  of  each.  We  do  not  expect  a  licensed 
victualler  to  uphold  a  temperance  lecturer  as  a  model  of 
all  the  virtues,  nor  an  experimental  physiologist  to  bless 
the  antivivisection  society.  Making  every  allowance  for 
the  antagonism  subsistent  between  an  actor  and  a  repre- 
sentative of  Calvinism,  it  was  hardly  equitable  on  the 
part  of  the  soi-disant  friendly  pen  which  gibbeted  Charles 
Rcade  as  a  lunatic  to  malign  his  spiritual  consoler  as  an 


424  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

obscure  Nonconformist.  The  Rev.  Charles  Graham  may 
not  enjoy  the  notoriety  of  a  player  of  the  third,  or  the  ce- 
lebrity of  a  player  of  the  first,  rank,  but  he  happens  to  be 
the  recognized  representative  of  the  established  Church  of 
Scotland  in  London,  and  as  such  is  not  wholly  unknown; 
while  on  the  other  side  of  that  thin  dividing  line,  the  river 
Tweed,  he  is  as  miich  of  a  Conformist  a~s  our  gracious 
Sovereign  Lady  herself.  It  may  have  been  Charles  Reade's 
weakness  of  intellect,  but  he  certainly  expressed  himself 
astonished — speaking  from  an  Oxonian  point  of  view — at 
this  clergyman's  storehouse  of  learning.  Mr.  Graham's 
age,  his  intellect,  his  character,  his  earnest  eloquence — 
above  all  the  signal  service  he  rendered  a  great  and  sor- 
rowing soul — might  have  shielded  him  from  a  stolid  sneer — 
and  that  too  in  a  magazine  issuing  from  New  Burlington 
Street.  But  enough.  By  all,  except  perhaps  the  more 
lubricious  element  of  the  dramatic  profession,  the  written 
encomium  of  the  author  will  be  held  to  outweigh  the 
censure  of  Temple  Bar ;  and,  apart  from  Charles  Reade, 
a  communion  which  boasts  the  foremost  theologian  of 
this  age — Professor  Drummond — can  very  well  afford  to 
ignore  this  type  of  assailant.  Unable,  as  he  puts  it,  after 
reiterated  attempts,  to  endure  either  the  solitude  or  asso- 
ciations of  Albert  Gate;  and  needing,  over  and  above  the 
unremitting  attentions  of  Mr.  Listen  Reade,  constant  care — 
a  task  for  which  his  nieces  were  by  experience  well  quali- 
fied— being  also  anxious  for  the  society  occasionally  of  his 
good  friend,  Mr.  Graham,  Charles  Reade  proposed  to  his 
brother  what  may  be  termed  an  act  of  mutual  self-denial. 
He  had  Albert  Gate  on  his  hands,  but  would  not  live  there. 
His  brother  had  built  for  himself  a  model  residence,  suited 
to  the  requirements  of  his  family.  This  last  was  hardly 
spacious  enough  to  meet  the  necessities  of  both  brothers. 


Dead-Sea  Fruit.  425 

He  proposed,  therefore,  that  they  should  each  give  up  his 
house — take  on  long  lease  a  pair  of  semi-detached  villas, 
nearer  London,  and  by  removing  the  wall  of  partition  be- 
tween the  gardens  create  one  large  lawn.  After  sundry 
alterations  this  plan  took  effect,  and  the  brothers  moved 
to  their  two  residences,  dos  d,  dos,  but  communicating  by 
means  of  a  veranda. 

The  sacrifice  was  all  on  one  side;  but  the  elder  brother 
had  the  profound  satisfaction  of  witnessing  its  happy  re- 
sults. Charles  Reade  was  aroused  to  interest  by  the 
excitement  of  moving.  A  foe  to  paint,  and  a  lover  of 
varnish,  he  had  all  his  doors  and  wainscots  scraped,  and 
displayed  the  grain  of  the  wood.  He  bustled  about,  fitted 
up  his  new  home  with  every  comfort,  and  actually  began 
to  put  on  flesh.  He  started  a  menagerie  of  Belgian  hares, 
Avhich  fraternized  quite  comfortably  with  Mrs.  Seymour's 
pair  of  toy  terriers ;  and  the  passers-by  on  the  tram-cars 
wondered  to  behold  what  seemed  to  be  a  warren  in  a  Lon- 
don suburb.  In  the  summer  tennis  occupied  a  large  slice 
of  the  day;  and  his  relations,  at  all  events,  hoped  he  had 
settled  down  calmly  to  a  new  life — or  rather  to  have  re- 
verted to  that  of  his  boyhood  and  young  manhood.  Mr. 
Graham  was  his  chief  consolation  beyond  his  own  pre- 
cincts, and  within  them  he  seemed  tranquillized  by  the 
devoted  affection  of  his  brother. 

A  public  charge  of  monomania — religious  monomania, 
it  is  styled,  but  the  adjective  hardly  qualifies  the  indict- 
ment— having  been  preferred  against  Charles  Reade,  we 
deem  it  right  to  adduce  evid^ce  beyond  that  of  ourselves 
to  demonstrate  its  falsity.  Mr.  Graham  writes,  "The 
statement  of  Mr.  Charles  Reade  being  *  a  monomaniac  on 
the  subject  of  religion'  is  utterly  without  foundation. 
Monomania,  according  to  the  definition  of  medical  sci- 


420  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

ence,  means  *  disordered  or  erroneous  persuasions  of  the 
mind  on  one  subject.'  I  conversed  with  Mr.  Reade  more 
than  one  hundred  times  on  the  subject  of  religion,  and 
never  detected  in  him  any  *  disordered  or  erroneous  per- 
suasion '  in  relation  to  it.  On  the  contrary,  I  have  always 
been  impressed  with  the  soundness  of  his  judgment  on  ev- 
ery subject  within  the  wide  range  of  our  conversations. 
More  than  a  dozen  times  we  met  at  my  house,  and  entered 
into  conversation  on  religious  and  other  questions  with 
medical  men  and  ministers  of  the  gospel,  and  all  were 
charmed  with  his  superior  intelligence  and  with  the  sound- 
ness of  his  views,  as  well  as  the  sincerity  of  his  heart.  If 
my  esteemed  friend  was  a  monomaniac  on  the  subject  of 
religion,  I  have  never  met  a  man  of  sound  mind  upon  it." 
This  is  witness.  Now  for  its  corroboration.  Charles 
Reade  writes  to  Mr.  Graham  as  follows: 

"  I  have  never  been  downright  ill  since  my  darling  died  until  Monday 
night  last.  Then  my  chronic  cough  became  very  violent,  with  headache 
and  depression.  My  brother,  who  has  kept  me  company  in  this  sad  home, 
left  me ;  and  I  was  not  only  ill,  but  quite  alone,  in  a  house  where  hitherto 
a  loving  nurse  had  hovered  over  me  in  sickness.  This  overpowered  me  so 
that,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  I  prayed  to  die. 

"  In  sheer  terror  I  have  left  home,  and  come  to  my  brother  for  a  day  or 
two, 

"  Alas,  I  am  not  Christian,  but  Faint-heart ;  or,  rather,  like  Christiana, 
I  need  a  Great  Heart  to  cling  to  in  this  bitter  and  complicated  trial. 

"  Forgive  the  egotism  which  intrudes  its  woes  upon  you.  Those  who 
live  for  others  are  soon  singled  out  and  taken  advantage  of. 

"  Yours,  gratefully  and  ashamed,  Chakles  Rkaok." 

Again: 

"  Dear  Mr.  Graham, — I  was  sorry  not  to  see  you  on  the  eve  of  your 
journey ;  however,  I  hope  my  good  wishes  caught  you  flying,  and  that  you 
are  being  refreshed  in  body  and  spirit  by  this  visit  to  your  native  country. 
You  were  certainly  being  overworked  here,  and  some  relief  of  tension  nec- 
essary. 


Dead-Sea  Fruit.  427 

*  Neque  semper  arcum 
Tendit  Apostle.' 

"  Your  return,  however,  will  be  welcome — both  to  the  many  who,  like 
myself,  love  you  in  private,  and  to  the  congregation  of  Avenue  Road  chapel. 
"  Looking  forward  to  your  return,  I  am,  my  dear  friend  and  consoler, 
"Ever  yours  affectionately,  Charles  Readk." 

Again,  in  reference  to  the  above-mentioned  move: 

"  Dear  Mr.  Graham, — Cough  gone,  and  pain  in  my  chest  much  abated, 
but  this  is  the  14th  day  of  close  imprisonment.  I  am  weary  of  inaction 
and  confinement. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  character  of  Mr.  Weary  o'  the  World,  in  the 
*  Pilgrim's  Progress  ?'  I  seem  to  myself  to  resemble  him  more  than  I  do 
Christian,  or  Faithful,  or  Hopeful. 

"We  have  offered  Mr.  B £120  a  year  for  his  two  houses  on  a  long 

lease.    Thereupon  he  sent  his  agent  to  ask  my  brother  to  call  on  him. 

My  brother  excused  himself  from  doing  that.     Then  Mr.  B wrote  and 

declined. 

"  Till  this  letter  came  I  was  beginning  to  think  it  was  ordained  I  should 
leave  my  old  abode,  and  all  associations  not  worth  cherishing,  and  begia 
life  again — at  sixty-seven — on  the  Uxbridge  Road. 

"  Now  I  hardly  know  what  to  think. 

"  At  the  request  of  a  lady  in  Melrose  Gardens  I  sent  a  trifle  to  a  poor 
clergyman  in  Wales.  He  has  not  acknowledged  receipt.  Should  be  glad 
to  know  whether  he  had  got  it.     I  do  not  like  to  write  and  ask  him. 

"  It  seemed  odd  not  to  acknowledge  a  donation. 

"Yours  affectionately,  Cbables  Reade." 

The  above  letters,  written  at  long  intervals,  fail  to  give 
the  smallest  support  to  the  slander  of  monomania.  The  next 
will  be  read  by  some  with  contempt,  by  others  with  ap- 
probation; but  by  all,  except  the  most  exacerbated,  with 
respect  for  the  writer's  sincerity : 

"  8  Clarendon  Villas,  Margate. 
"  Dear  Mb.  Graham, — I  arrived  hero  at  seven,  and  found  my  brother  " 
(William  Barrington) "  pale  and  emaciated,  and  by  loss  of  teeth  somewhat 


428  Memoir  of  Charles  Eeade. 

inarticulate.  He  felt  my  coming,  which  was  a  comfort,  for  the  sight  of 
the  place  has  set  my  heart  bleeding  as  freely  as  ever.  I  did  propose  to  go 
to  Ilastings  to-morrow,  but  I  have  postponed  leaving  this  place  for  the  fol- 
lowing reasons :  here  is  a  dying  Christian  surrounded  by  living  Christians. 
Yet  death  and  eternity  have  never  been  mentioned  during  all  this  sickness." 
(We  have  reason  to  believe  that  here  he  was  in  error^we  give  his  letter 
simply  as  an  index  of  his  mind,  and  with  apologies  to  those  whom  with 
well-meant  zeal  he  takes  to  task.)  "  All  for  want  of  a  little  courage.  Now, 
as  I  earnestly  hope  people  will  talk  about  nothing  else  in  my  dying  ears, 
I  have  taken  upon  me,  though  a  very  poor  Christian  compared  with  others 
in  this  house,  to  break  through  this  unhappy  reticence.  I  have  spoken  to 
him  of  his  death  as  probable.  I  have  examined  him  as  to  his  condition, 
and  read  to  him  a  selection  from  the  service  called  '  The  Visitation  of  the 
Sick ;'  and  I  find  him  so  humble,  penitent,  and  full  of  faith  that  I  have  pro- 
posed to  him  to  take  the  Communion  with  me  after  preparation.  His  par- 
ish priest,  who  is  zealous,  will  be  at  his  bedside  at  four  this  afternoon,  and 
so  I  do  hope  the  ice  will  be  broken. 

"  This  will  postpone  my  visit  to  St.  Leonards.  With  kind  love  to  you  and 
yours.  Yours  very  sincerely,  Charles  Reade. 

"  Lovely  weather — sunset  a  hundred  colors !" 

The  above  offers  a  complete  vindication,  except  to  thoise 
jaundiced  minds  who,  like  dumb,  driven  cattle,  focus  their 
eyes  on  the  ground,  and,  themselves  never  looking  up- 
ward, decry  all  religious  emotion  as  insanity,  and  all  re- 
ligious conviction  as  imbecility. 

But  enough  of  small  slander.  Suffice  it,  that  during  the 
most  acute  period,  when  his  friends,  who  were  eye-wit- 
nesses of  such  torture  as  only  the  grandest  mind  could  en- 
dure without  lesion,  had  only  too  grave  cause  to  apprehend 
the  loss  of  his  reason,  he  was  as  yet  a  stranger  to  Mr.  Gra- 
ham. When,  subsequently,  he  came  within  range  of  that 
divine's  beneficent  influence,  his  spirit  by  degrees  calmed; 
and  never  during  life  was  his  brain  more  cool,  more  judg- 
matical, better  tempered  to  endure  the  strain  of  external 
phenomena. 


Dead-Sea  Fruit.  429 

Of  his  great  philanthropic  work  between  the  years 
18Y9-1883,  it  is  not  for  us  to  speak  particularly.  What 
he  had  inherited  from  Mrs.  Seymour  he  distributed  with 
his  own  hand  —  and  much  also  of  his  own  small  fortune, 
his  donations  in  one  year  amounting  to  the  large  total  of 
£3000.  Cases  have  been  publicly  cited  of  his  delicate  lib- 
erality.   They  could  be  multiplied — almost  indefinitely. 

On  one  appeal  for  alms — from  an  actor — he  wrote: 

"  Fatal  procrastination  !  I  meant  to  have  given  this 
poor  fellow  the  money  he  asked,  but  he  died  before  I  could 
reach  him — confound  it  all !" 

Was  that  monomania  f 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

VIA   CALCANDA. 

At  the  close  of  1881  William  Barrington  Reade  passed 
away;  his  eldest  son,  Winwood,  had  succumbed  some  six 
years  previously  to  disease  contracted  in  Ashantee;  his 
successor,  therefore,  as  Squire  of  Ipsden,  was  his  second 
son,  Henry  St.  John  Reade,  successively  head  boy  of  Ton- 
bridge,  scholar  of  University  College,  Oxford,  captain  of 
the  Oxford  eleven,  and  first-class  man.  This  gentleman, 
who  married  the  granddaughter  of  Dr.  Vincent,  Dean  of 
Westminster,  had  chosen  the  scholastic  profession,  and 
galvanized  the  Grocers  Company's  group  of  schools  at 
Oundle,  from  a  j^altry  handful  of  thirty  boys  to  a  big 
public  school  nearly  ten  times  that  number.  On  attain- 
ing the  dignity  of  squire  he,  however,  amidst  loud  regrets, 
resigned  his  post  of  pedagogue,  and  organized  a  huge 
housewarming  at  Ipsden. 

Thirty  -  two  descendants  of  venerable  John  Reade  met 
on  that  happy  occasion.  Of  this  company  Charles  Reade 
was,  of  course,  the  cynosure.  Ancient  rustics,  who  re- 
tained vivid  recollections  of  "Master  Chawse,"  came  to 
pay  their  respects  to  the  silver-bearded  author.  There 
was  a  cricket  match  improvised,  and  other  homely  festivi- 
ties ;  while,  to  tell  the  boys  and  girls  something  of  their 
origin,  the  drawing-room  tables  were  covered  with  the 
records  of  the  Reades  of  a  remote  past.  There,  in  black 
letter,  a  terra  incognita  to  the  eyes  of  all  but  the  instruct- 


Via  Calcanda.  431 

cd,  were  the  title  -  deeds  of  the  manors  conveyed  by  one 
Andlett  of  Abingdon,  reputed  to  be  King  Hal's  barber, 
to  William  Reade  of  Beedon.  Three  hundred  and  fifty 
years  had  passed  since  then,  with  many  vicissitudes  for 
the  race.  There,  too,  was  the  inventory  of  Catherine 
Reade's  furniture,  when  in  the  reign  of  Edward  VI.  she 
brought  her  husband,  a  certain  Mr.  Thomas  Vachell,  of 
papistical  proclivities,  to  live  at  Ipsden.  There  were  the 
letters  of  the  cavalier  Edward  when  locked  up  in  Oxford 
Castle  for  debt,  and  much  of  strange  interest,  though  of 
later  date. 

"Alas!"  sighed  the  successful  author,  as  he  perused 
these  records,  "  that  I  should  have  done  so  little  for  the 
family !" 

The  said  family  happens  to  be  one  of  the  very  few  re- 
maining which  held  a  territorial  position  antecedently  to 
the  Wars  of  the  Roses.  Mr.  Evelyn  Shirley  omitted  it  from 
his  catalogue — the  murderous  maniac,  who  represented  the 
senior  branch  having,  just  before  the  publication  of  the 
said  book,  aliened  Beedon,  which  had  been  in  the  posses- 
sion of  the  family  for  more  than  five  centuries,  and  with 
that  the  ruins  of  Barton  Court,  a  hallowed  memorial  of  the 
bravery  of  Sir  Compton  Reade.  Mr.  Shirley,  however — 
although,  of  course,  he  would  not  include  Ipsden  in  his 
list,  it  having  been  purchased  a  few  years  after  the  arbi- 
trary chronological  limit  he  fixed  —  omitted  to  take  into 
account  the  estate  at  Taynton,  which  at  the  moment  re- 
mained the  property  of  Sir  John  Chandos  Reade,  and  had 
been  in  the  family  before  the  reign  of  Henry  VI.  There 
was  cause  enough  for  Charles  Reade's  deep  -  heaved  sigh. 
Beedon  had  gone  to  a  banker,  and  Dunstewe,  renamed — 
in  Charles  II. 's  time,  by  Sir  John  Reade  of  Brocket  Bar- 
ton, in  honor  of  the  greater  Barton  which  lay  in  ruins — to 


432  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

a  brewer.  Brocket  bad  passed  to  tbe  descendants  of  Sir 
John  Brocket's  land-agent ;  and  Shipton,  the  royal  resi- 
dence, with  the  "  ancient  inheritance  of  Taynton,"  by  the 
will  of  the  said  homicidal  Sir  John  Chandos,  to  his  butler. 
Boarstal  was  the  property  of  strangers,  and  thus,  of  all 
the  manors,  Ipsden  alone  remained.  Little  by  little  in  the 
lapse  of  centuries  the  race,  once  so  opulent  and  powerful, 
had  been  dwindling  into  insignificance;  no  marvel,  there- 
fore, Charles  Reade  regretted  that,  like  his  father,  he  had 
avoided  a  political  career,  and  thereby  lost  the  chance  of 
rehabilitating  the  old  name. 

It  was  a  bright  gathering  for  the  children,  yet  to  the 
seniors  sorrowful.  At  the  open  doors  of  the  old  house 
there  seemed  to  enter  familiar  faces  and  forms  —  the  ven- 
erable squire  and  his  courtly  wife;  sister  Ellin  or;  young 
Allen  Gardiner,  Julia's  handsome  son;  Anna,  doomed,  as 
Mrs.  R.  A.  J.  Drummond,  to  face  the  fire  of  the  mutineers 
in  India.  The  shadow  of  sorrow  seemed  almost  to  pass 
over  the  scene  in  anticipation,  for  the  reign  of  Henry  St. 
John  Reade  at  Ipsden  was  destined  to  be  but  brief,  and 
the  sounds  of  rejoicing  but  the  prelude  of  the  death  wail, 
to  be  heard  only  too  soon. 

It  was  now  three  summers  sincd  the  decease  of  Mrs. 
Seymour  had,  as  it  were,  dashed  the  pen  from  Charles 
Reade's  hand.  Messrs,  Scribner,  through  Mr.  Warne, 
offered  him  £4000  for  a  novel  —  and  his  nephew  pressed 
him  to  write  fiction  in  a  serious  vein — but  the  answer  was, 
"  Why  should  I  ?"  The  theatrical  people  came  buzzing 
about  him  with  the  design  of  inveigling  him  in  some  spec- 
ulation, but  to  them  he  was  deaf.  He  had,  as  he  phrased 
it  to  Mr.  Graham,  another  Master,  and  his  self-imposed 
task  of  almoner-general  cheered  and  invigorated  him.  It 
is  a  fact  -that,  as  he  played  tennis  on  the  lawn  at  Ipsden, 


Via  CaUanda.  433 

every  one  could  but  note  how,  to  all  appearance  lastingly, 
he  had  recovered  from  the  effects  of  that  blow  which  had 
been  all  but  fatal.  His  face  had  filled  out.  He  was  no 
longer  lean,  but  well  clothed  with  adipose  tissue.  His 
spirits  had  revived.  He  enlivened  the  table  with  racy 
anecdotes.  Three  years  had  given  him  a  measure  of  re- 
juvenescence. 

Had  he  continued  thus,  it  is  not  too  much  to  affirm,  he 
would  have  been  with  us  to  -  day.  As  it  fell  out,  the  new 
orb  of  existence  waxed  only  to  wane. 

He  allowed  himself,  contrary  to  his  better  judgment,  to 
be  over-persuaded  into  a  dramatic  collaboration,  which 
eventually  led  up  to  a  theatrical  speculation.  It  is  super- 
fluous to  hazard  a  criticism  of  the  drama  called  "  Love  and 
Money,"  produced  at  the  Adelphi  Theatre  ;  inasmuch  r.s 
whatever  credit  belongs  to  the  play  must  be  set  down  to 
the  score  of  Mr.  Pettit.  Suffice  it,  that  the  excitement  of 
the  stage,  its  surroundings  and  associations,  injured  irre- 
coverably a  delicate  constitution.  He  became  irritable  and 
restless.  Mr.  Graham  testifies  that  he  was  unhappy,  if  not 
remorseful;  for  although  he  always  stoutly  maintained 
that  the  drama  ought  to  exercise  a  regenerating  influence 
on  society,  and  tend  to  the  mental  and  moral  exaltation  of 
man,  he  could,  when  in  the  mood,  be  none  the  less  severe 
on  the  environment  of  playhouses  and  their  "  lubricity,"  as 
he  has  emphatically  termed  it  in  his  guard-book.  For  him 
the  theatre  possessed  the  quality  of  strong,  of  overpower- 
ing, magic.  It  was  cruel  kindness  to  apply  that  wand  in 
order  to  drag  him  against  his  conscience  whither  he  would 
not.    However,  so  it  was  to  be. 

From  a  pecuniary  point  of  view  he  gained  nothing,  even 
when  the  receipts  of  the  novel,  based  on  the  drama,  are 
added  to  the  sums  he  received — less  loss — by  its  represen- 
19 


434  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

tations  in  England  and  America.  The  sum  paid  him  by 
Messrs.  Tillotson,  of  Bolton,  for  the  issue  of  "  Love  and 
Money  "  *  in  serial  form  did  not,  by  any  means,  cover  his 
disbursements  to  a  single  actress.  It  may  be  a  hard  re- 
flection, but  it  is  a  true  one,  that  this  Barmecidal  reversion 
to  the  theatre  cost  him  money,  labor,  time,  temper,  peace 
of  mind,  health,  and  life  itself. 

Yet  in  spite  of  so  ill-advised  an  attempt  to  run  with  the 
hare  and  hunt  with  the  hounds,  and  certain  outspoken  re- 
monstrances from  his  brother  Compton  as  to  the  folly  of 
all  this,  his  mind  never  faltered  in  its  loyalty  to  those  who 
were  true  to  him.  He  may  have  neglected  Mr.  Graham's 
advice,  yet  his  love  for  that  sterling  friend  remained  un- 
shaken. He  gave  reiterated  assurances  of  his  deep  affec- 
tion for  those  near  relatives  who  had  devoted  themselves 
to  him.  Soon,  too,  his  old  ailments  returned  with  re- 
doubled vehemence,  and  he  needed  sorely  all  their  solici- 
tude. The  racking  cough  became  his  constant  compan- 
ion.    He  fell  away  to  a  skeleton.     Food  seemed  poison. 

♦Afterwards  issued,  both  in  America  for  Messrs.  Harper's  Bazar ^  and 
in  TemjUe  Bar,  under  the  title  "  A  Perilous  Secret."  Mr.  W.  F.  Tillotson, 
who  was  approached  originally  by  Charles  Rcadc's  nephew  in  1875,  in  ref- 
erence to  "  The  Woman-IIater,"  endeavored  for  many  years  to  persuade 
him  to  write  for  his  sjmdicate.  In  reply  to  one  among  many  overtures,  in 
May,  1878,  Charles  Reade  wrote :  "Dear  Sir,  I  am  at  home  every  morning 
till  two,  and  very  happy  to  talk  to  you  about  anything  but  novels.  The 
public  is  an  ass,  and  does  not  understand  mine.  So  I  am  not  in  a  humor 
to  waste  time  and  labor  and  skill."  Eventually  Mr.  Tillotson  was  equally 
surprised  and  gratified  by  Charles  Reade  offering  him  the  serial  use  of 
"  Love  and  Money,"  provided  terms  could  be  arranged — as  actually  oc- 
curred— with  Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers  for  simultaneous  publication  in 
America.  It  was  a  singular  coincidence  that  the  first  and  last  novel  of 
Charles  Reade  should  have  been  published  in  this  country  by  the  eminent 
firm  of  R.  Bcntley  &  Son,  of  N^w  Burlington  Street. 


Via  Calcanda.  435 

There  was  at  times  a  look  of  death  visible  on  his  face — 
albeit  his  spirits  varied,  and  his  niece  remarked,  with  sim- 
ple truth,  '*  Uncle  Charles  is  so  very  young."  Elasticity 
of  spirits,  however,  was  neutralized  by  spells  of  melan- 
choly, coupled  with  a  strange  restlessness.  He  had  no  idea 
that  he  was  dying,  yet  hardly  cared  for  life.  When  the 
writer  wished  him  happy  returns  of  his  birthday,  he  pain- 
fully startled  his  well-wisher  with,  "  Belay  that,  my  boy  !" 
It  was  a  pitiable  change,  more  especially  to  those  who  knew 
only  too  well  what  had  been  the  cause. 

Towards  the  close  of  1883  he  resolved  to  escape  the 
London  fog — his  enemy,  though  by  no  means  the  worst 
one  he  had — and  to  that  end  roamed  abroad,  attended  only 
by  a  secretary.  It  was  the  wish  of  his  family  that  one 
of  their  number  should  accompany  him,  but  he  preferred 
solitude.  At  first  the  change  did  him  good,  and  he  wrote 
to  his  nephew — ^the  writer — then  resident  at  Elton  Rec- 
tory, to  invite  himself  during  the  ensuing  spring,  begging 
especially  for  some  trout-fishing.  Soon,  however,  the  dark 
tide  began  to  roll,  and  he  drifted  on  its  billows  to  realize 
the  nearness  of  the  bourne  whereunto  he  was  hastening. 

Under  date  Cannes,  Jan.  1, 1884,  he  writes  thus: 

"In  March,  1883,  I  nearly  died  of  bronchitis,  which 
with  me  is  chronic,  and  has  paroxysms.  For  the  first 
time  was  unable  to  eat. 

"When  I  got  about  again,  little  spasms  came  on  in 
stomach  or  bowels  about  one  o'clock.  I  stopped  them  at 
first  by  eating  a  little. 

"But,  by  and  by,  they  came  on  at  all  hours  and  were 
painful.  I  lost  flesh  and  appetite,  and  took  to  sipping 
milk  to  stop  them.  A  month  or  two  more  and  they  be- 
came frequent  and  tormenting. 

"Soon  I  found  myself  with  no  appetite  for  meat,  and 


436  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

drinking  milk  instead  of  tea.  After  several  months  of  it, 
wasted  to  a  skeleton,  I  left  England.  Journeys  made  me 
worse,  and  when  I  reached  Cannes,  early  in  December,  I 
was  in  agonies  day  and  night.  A  paroxysm  of  hronchitis 
fell  on  me,  and  I  felt  myself  in  danger.  But  Providence 
sent  me  a  good  friend,  though  a  humble  one,  in  theyemme 
dc  chamhre.  I  cut  down  the  fever  that  hitherto  accom- 
panied my  cough,  and,  weakened  as  I  was  by  pain,  I  pulled 
through.  She  administered  hot  linseed  plasters  for  my 
agony. 

"A  fortnight  ago  I  gave  up  meat  altogether,  and  my 
torments  began  to  retire  directly.  Now  I  often  have  a 
day  without  a  pang. 

"Present  diet:  8  a.m.,  tea,  nearly  all  milk,  two  poached 
eggs.  Brandt's  jelly  or  else  cream.  About  11,  a  raw  Qgg 
and  milk.  At  1,  pea-soup,  strong  of  the  meat.  About  3, 
milk.  5,  strong  soup — lentils.  7,  powdered  biscuits  and 
lots  of  cream.  At  night,  whenever  I  wake,  raw  egg  and 
milk.  I  often  eat  eight  raw  eggs  in  the  twenty-four  hours. 
Weak  in  body,  and  rather  weak  and  desultory  in  mind, 
bringing  up  a  good  deal  of  mucus,  sometimes  cough,  but 
Ro  violent  pains.  Three  weeks  ago  I  thought  I  had  a 
schirrus,  a  something  inside  me,  and  must  die.  Now  I 
think  I  shall  live,  though  of  course  I  am  always  in  danger 
of  bronchitis. 

"  Diet  this  day,  Jan.  2 :  At  8,  poached  eggs,  cream,  hot 
milk.  At  11,  eggs  and  milk.  1,  pea-soup.  3,  a  glass  of 
milk  hot  from  the  cow  set  me  coughing  directly.  At  4,  a 
little  powdered  biscuit  and  cream.  At  5,  strong  soup  with 
flower  of  lentils.  At  7-,  stewed  plums  and  cream.  Chilly 
and  inclined  to  cough.  Result.  Pain  in  chest  at  night, 
but  slept  from  9  till  5.  After  dressing  rather  brisk,  walked 
in  corridor.     If  I  can  walk,  it  will  be  a  new  era. 


Via  Calcanda.  43V 

"  Jan.  3. — At  8,  poached  eggs,  cream,  hot  milk,  little  tea. 

"Feb.  6,  1884. — Either  the  climate  of  Cannes  or  the 
open  carriages  in  which  the  hot  sun  tempts  me  to  ride, 
have  made  my  emphysema  and  chronic  bronchitis  twice  as 
bad  as  they  were  in  England.  Even  without  exertion  I 
pant  for  breath.     Sometimes  I  pant  in  bed. 

"  This  day,  after  long  threatening  to  leave  the  beguiling 
seaside,  I  have  moved  to  the  Hotel  Richemont.  Soup  a 
failure — a  mere  consomme,  although  the  mistress,  an  oblig- 
ing Englishwoman,  promised  me  faithfully  an  English 
soup.  I  have  to  tell  her  to  make  the  cook  stew  the  meat 
before  she  boils  it,  so  to-morrow  we  shall  see.  Examined 
this  day  by  Dr.  Frank.  He  finds  considerable  induration 
of  the  lower  liver,  but  without  any  pronounced  lump — 
great  emphysema,  but  the  bronchial  tubes  clear.  The 
stomach  and  intestines  seriously  disordered. 

"  What  is  all  this  but  a  general  breaking-up  of  the  sys- 
tem ?  He  sees  no  help  or  alleviation  but  the  right  diet, 
air,  and  sleep. 

"  This  first  day  of  Richemont  my  secretary  has  prevailed 
on  me  to  walk  to  the  dairy,  where  I  buy  my  milk.  He 
carried  a  chair,  into  which  I  sank  several  times,  coming 
and  going.  I  did  not  quite  get  to  the  dairy.  On  the  way 
I  found  a  cottage  with  three  female  goats.  I  sat  at  the 
cottage  door  in  the  sun  and  drank  nearly  two  half  pints 
of  warm  goats'  milk.  It  seemed  to  agree  with  me.  God 
willing,  I  will  do  this  every  day  that  the  weather  is  fine!" 

These  extracts  tell,  with  no  further  description,  the 
rapid  descent.  What  improvement  there  seemed  to  bo 
may  be  termed  illusory.  Each  bulletin  grew  more  de- 
spondent. He  signed  letters  only,  dictating  them  to  his 
secretary,  who  appears  to  have  been  very  attentive  and 


488  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade, 

sympathetic.  There  could  have  been  little  doubt,  in  his 
own  mind,  that  the  end  was  approaching. 

In  the  midst  of  this  intermittent  anguish,  moreover,  an 
event  occurred  which  filled  him  with  horror  and  apprehen- 
sion. 

His  nephew  Henry,  the  bright  and  genial  squire,  who 
had  but  just  settled  down  with  his  young  wife  and  family 
in  the  dear  old  home  at  Ipsden,  came  up  to  London  to  con- 
sult not  one  doctor,  but  several.  Those  who,  in  the  later 
summer  of  1882,  had  seen  him  play  cricket  with  the  activ- 
ity and  strength  of  an  undergraduate,  to  the  admiration 
of  all  who  saw  it,  must  have  deemed  it  incredible  that  this 
hale,  vigorous  man,  not  burdened  with  superfluous  flesh, 
a  stranger  to  vice  of  every  description — indeed,  a  model 
scholar  and  gentleman — should  be  suddenly  cast  for  death. 

Yet  so  it  was.  To  spare  his  fond  wife,  who  was  in 
ignorance  of  the  imminent  danger,  he  asked  to  be  allowed 
to  occupy  his  Uncle  Charles's  empty  house.  Thither  to 
him  flocked  the  doctors,  but  their  art  was  unavailing. 
With  rare  fortitude  he  laid  himself  down  on  his  uncle's 
bed  to  die,  writing  in  pencil  the  tenderest  and  sweetest 
farewells  to  all  he  cared  for.  He  suffered,  as  strong  men 
must,  who  are  cut  down  in  their  prime;  but  the  fatal  in- 
ternal disease  did  its  work  rapidly.  It  seemed  but  a  few 
days  from  the  time  when  he  lay  down  on  Charles  Reade's 
bed,  and  his  passing  away. 

Of  all  the  Reades  who,  since  1539,  had  enjoyed  the 
Ipsden  estate,  his  tenure  was  the  shortest,  two  years  and 
two  months  only. 

So  tragic  an  occurrence  would  have  filled  a  soul  of  the 
coarsest  fibre  with  compassion  and  grief.  Here  was  a  man 
of  middle  age  whose  career  had  been  one  continuous,  un- 
broken success;  he  had  inherited  a  position,  not  indeed  of 


Via  Calcanda.  439 

great  opulence,  but  of  honor.  The  lines  had  fallen  to  him 
in  a  pleasant  place,  for  Ipsden  is  the  Eden  of  England. 
Yet,  as  it  were  in  a  few  short  hours,  this  vision  of  happi- 
ness and  beauty  ended.  No  single  circumstance  could 
have  affected  the  mind  of  Charles  Reade  more  acutely. 
The  echoes  of  the  passing  bell  wafted  across  the  sea  must 
have  sounded  like  notes  of  warning.  From  that  moment 
his  desire  was  intense  to  return  home.  Debility  deferred 
his  journey  more  than  once;  and  it  was  not  until  the  hor- 
ror of  dying  in  a  foreign  land  overpowered  him  that  he 
mustered  resolution  to  move  homewards. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  dietary  he  selected  at 
Cannes  was  utterly  wrong.  The  liver  was  the  seat  of  all 
his  maladies;  and  for  a  man  of  mature  years,  afflicted  with 
a  diseased  liver,  to  live  on  eggs  and  cream,  seems,  indeed, 
infatuation.  It  came  to  this,  that  everything  he  swallowed 
both  poisoned  and  caused  him  internal  pain.  Weakness 
of  an  alarming  character  supervened,  aggravated  by  the 
cruel  cough.  It  seemed  dubious  whether  he  could  reach 
home  alive. 

At  last  his  nieces  received  a  telegram  summoning  them 
to  Boulogne.  They  had  barely  recovered  from  the  labor 
and  anxiety  of  attending  on  poor  Heniy  St.  John  Reade's 
death-bed ;  but  at  once  hastened  across  the  Channel  to  find 
their  beloved  uncle  mentally  prostrate,  and  in  a  pitiable 
condition. 

He  was  very  deeply  attached  to  them,  and  their  pres- 
ence for  the  nonce  revived  him.  By  their  assistance  the 
journey  to  Uxbridge  Road  was  painfully  accomplished; 
but  there  was  no  hope — death  had  stamped  its  mark  on 
his  face. 

"  I  am  come  home  to  die,"  was  his  feeble  whisper. 

That  was  the  obvious  fact;  but  his  eagerness  to  reach 


440  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

Shepherd's  Bush  was  caused  by  a  wish  he  had  repeatedly 
expressed,  mz.^  that  he  might  pass  away  surrounded  by 
the  prayers  of  his  own  flesh  and  blood.  There  had  been 
a  time  in  his  life  when  his  relations  with  his  family  were 
by  no  means  of  the  most  cordial  nature.  For  that,  with  a 
magnanimity  peculiarly  his  own,  he  openly  blamed  him- 
self, and  for  many  years  sought  to  make  amends  by  acts 
of  kindness  and  generosity.  It  was  but  natural,  therefore, 
that  he  should  crave  at  the  last  for  the  sympathy  he  valued 
most;  none  the  less  a  terrible  ordeal,  however,  was  that 
journey  from  Boulogne.  His  nieces  feared  he  would  die 
in  the  railway-carriage. 

He  expressed  himself  very  anxious  also  for  a  parting  in- 
terview with  the  gentle  and  faithful  divine  who  had  been 
his  mainstay  during  the  darkest  hours  of  his  life.  To  his 
bedside  came,  by  his  urgent  request,  Mr.  Graham,  and  the 
confidences  there  exchanged  left  no  doubt  as  to  the  state 
of  his  mind.  He  had  been  preparing  for  the  dread  change, 
and  in  view  thereof  had  comjiosed  his  own  epitaph — 
to  remain  as  a  confession  of  the  belief  he  cherished  so 
ardently. 

The  intelligence  of  his  arrival  and  critical  state  aroused 
universal  interest;  telegrams  rolled  in  from  all  parts — not 
excepting  the  United  States.  The  leading  literary  and 
theatrical  celebrities  thronged  his  portals;  but  by  the  strict 
injunctions  of  the  medical  men  in  attendance  were,  reluc- 
tantly, denied  admission.  The  sufferer  himself  implored 
that  his  last  hours  should  be  undisturbed;  and  when  a 
quondam  theatrical  friend  insisted  on  a  moment,  just  to 
press  his  hand,  he  may  not  have  recognized  him,  or  may 
have  been  unwilling  to  do  so.  His  mind  remained  fairly 
unclouded,  and  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Graham  he  roused 
himself  to  join  in  that  friend's  commendatory  prayer. 


Via  Calcanda.  441 

The  naturally  virile  constitution  of  the  once  muscular 
man  did  not,  as  was  expected,  give  away  at  once.  In  w^eak- 
ness  and  suffering  he  lingered  on,  and  that  for  many  days 
beyond  the  doctors'  expectations.  The  bright  light  flick- 
ered, and  flickered;  now  became  obscured,  only  to  burst 
forth  again;  now  seemed  to  vanish  altogether.  Nature 
struggled  bravely,  and  more  than  one  published  bulletin 
in  the  daily  papers  held  out  false  hopes.  Even  the  doctors 
allowed  themselves  to  be  deceived.  His  brother  Compton 
alone  grasped  the  terrible  truth,  and  watched  for  the  end. 

It  came — and,  by  one  of  those  strange  coincidences 
which  appeal  so  forcibly  to  those  whose  faith  shines 
brightest,  on  the  afternoon  of  Good  Friday. 

We  need  hardly  point  the  symbolism.  Memor  esto 
servi  Tuil 

Under  a  large  plain  sarcophagus,  of  Mull  granite,  in  the 
southeastern  angle  of  Willesden  churchyard,  by  the  side 
of  Mrs.  Seymour,  whose  virtues  he  had  extolled  in  a  high- 
ly eulogistic  epitaph,  Charles  Reade  reposes.  It  will  be 
for  others  to  say  what  his  life  and  labor  shall  be  valued  at 
in  the  time  to  come.  To  us  he  was  endeared,  not  merely 
by  brain,  but  by  heart;  not  solely  because  he  was  great, 
but  because  he  was  good  also.  He  left  his  faults  behind 
him,  to  be  forgotten.  His  virtues  remain,  and  shine  with 
increasing  lustre.  With  all  the  reverence  due  to  a  de- 
parted soul  we  append  his  profession  of  the  faith  that  was 
in  him,  a  document  written  with  a  dying  hand,  yet  one 
whose  pulses  were  warmed  by  high  hope: 

HEBE   LIE, 

BY  THE    SIDE    OF   HIS    BELOVED    FRIEND, 

THE    MORTAL    REMAINS    OF 

CHARLES  READE, 

VRAyATIST,  KOVSJJST,  JOURXAirST. 

19* 


442  Memoir  of  Charles  lieade. 

His  last  words  to  mankind  are  on  this  stone: 

"  I  hope  for  a  resurrection — not  from  any  power  in  nat- 
ure, but  from  the  will  of  the  Lord  God  Omnipotent,  who 
made  nature  and  me.  He  created  man  out  of  nothing; 
which  nature  could  not.  He  can  restore  man  from  the 
dust,  which  nature  cannot. 

"And  I  hope  for  holiness  and  happiness  in  a  future  life 
— not  for  anything  I  have  said  or  done  in  this  body,  but 
from  the  merits  and  mediation  of  Jesus  Christ. 

"He  has  promised  His  intercession  to  all  who  seek  it, 
and  He  will  not  break  his  word;  that  intercession  once 
granted  cannot  be  rejected;  for  He  is  God,  and  His  merits 
infinite;  a  man's  sins  are  but  human  and  finite. 

" '  Him  that  cometh  unto  Me  I  will  in  nowise  cast  out.* 
*  If  any  man  sin,  we  have  an  Advocate  with  the  Father, 
Jesus  Christ,  the  Righteous;  and  He  is  the  propitiation 
for  our  sins.'    Amen." 


APPENDIX. 


Charles  Reade  literally  writhed  under  the  lasli  of  the 
Rev.  Dr,  Stanton's  aspersions  in  the  American  press,  destined 
only  too  soon  to  be  reprinted  in  England.  Nothing  in  the 
whole  course  of  his  career  stung  him  so  cruelly  to  the  quick 
as  did  this  bogus  psychography  of  himself  perpetrated  by  a 
clerical  journalist.  It  was  not  petty  pride.  He  never  blamed 
his  friend  Mr.  Graham,  who  in  truth  was  as  much  the  victim 
of  betrayed  confidence  as  he  himself  was.  But  he  felt  bit- 
terly the  practical  lampoon  which  upheld  one,  who  had  been 
a  harmless  Bohemian  all  through,  in  the  light  of  a  saint. 
Not  condescending  to  respond  to  a  sham  eulogium  which 
really  amounted  to  an  impudent  libel,  he  could  scarcely  sit 
still  under  some  of  the  accusations  hurled  with  such  cool 
recklessness  at  himself  and  Mrs,  Seymour.  Hence  he  sent 
for  a  warm  friend  and  brother  in  art,  Mr.  Joseph  Hatton  ;  and 
that  gentleman,  who  at  the  moment  had  all  but  arranged  to 
collaborate  with  him  in  a  new  branch  of  dramatic  narration, 
viz.,  fiction  founded  on  a  sacred  subject — an  idea  which  fell 
through  solely  on  account  of  Charles  Reade's  health  —  re- 
sponded at  once  to  the  call.  He  found  the  injured  man 
seated  with  Mrs.  Seymour's  portrait  in  his  hand,  overpowered 
by  emotion,  indeed  bathed  in  tears,  yet  anxious  to  tell  the 
truth  concerning  his  most  cherished  convictions,  to  prove  by 
chapter  and  verse  those  numerous  professions  of  belief  which 
occur  in  all  or  nearly  all  his  works,  Mr.  Hatton,  needless  to 
add,  offered  him  the  true  sympathy  of  an  artist  and  a  man  of 
the  world — being  alike  pained  at  the  spectacle  of  grief,  and 
unable  to  conceal  the  scorn  and  righteous  indignation  that 


444  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

stirred  his  breast.  After  some  discussion,  it  was  arranged 
that  Charles  Reade  should  tell  his  own  unvarnished  tale  in  a 
letter  to  Mr.  Uatton,  which  the  latter  would  communicate  to  the 
American  press,  with  his  own  comments.  Yet  even  then  the 
true  gentleman,  with  a  chivalry  all  his  own,  made  a  distinct 
stipulation  that  Dr.  Stanton  should  be  handled  temperately. 

"  I  have  often,"  writes  Mr.  Joseph  Ilatton,  "  thought  of  de- 
scribing that  memorable  day  when  we  discussed  the  affair — 
his  gentleness,  his  tenderness,  his  desire  that  I  should,  in  dis- 
cussing the  subject,  not  use  '  too  strong  words.'  " 

This  communication,  which  enlightened  the  transatlantic 
public,  has  never  been  reproduced  in  this  country,  and  we 
deem  it  alike  due  to  Charles  Reade,  and  courteous  to  his  gen- 
erous champion,  Mr.  Joseph  Ilatton,  to  lay  it  before  the  read- 
ers of  this  Memoir.  It  is  entitled  "  Charles  Reade's  Faith," 
and  addressed  to  "  The  New  York  Times." 

**  An  article  headed  '  The  Conversion  of  Charles  Reade  * 
is  going  the  round  of  the  journals. 

"The  writer,  Dr.  Stanton,  has  not  read  Charles  Reade's 
works,  nor  consulted  any  educated  person  as  to  their  char- 
acter; yet  he  describes  his  religious  opinions,  as  well  as  his 
manners  and  personal  appearance,  and  gives  his  own  view  of 
certain  facts  confided  to  him  by  the  Rev.  Charles  Graham, 
with  a  warning  that  Mr.  Reade  shrank  from  newsmongers'  no- 
toriety. The  worst  of  these  violations  of  private  intercourse 
is,  that  the  purveyor  of  gossip  on  such  terms  dares  not  sub- 
mit his  copy  for  correction  to  those  whose  confidence  he  has 
betrayed,  and  so  indelicacy  breeds  inaccuracy. 

"  I  called  upon  Mr.  Reade  the  other  day,  and  found  him 
deeply  g-rieved  that  the  most  sacred  feelings  of  his  heart 
should  have  been  wormed  out  of  his  spiritual  adviser  in  the 
name  of  religion,  and  adulterated  for  the  purposes  of  trade ; 
but  though  much  distressed  at  some  of  Dr.  Stanton's  fig- 
ments, he  was  very  desirous  not  to  disturb  the  general  im- 
pression that  he  is  weaned  from  the  world,  and  humbly  de- 


Appendix.  445 

sires  to  serve  God.  This  has  kept  him  silent,  but  he  said  he 
would  write  me  a  letter  and  then  leave  the  matter  in  my 
hands.     I  have  since  received  the  letter  in  question : 

"  'No.  19  Albert  Gate,  June  14. 

" '  My  dear  Hatton, — I  shall  indeed  be  grateful  if  you  will  assist  me  to 
correct  just  two  of  Dr.  Stanton's  errors  that  wound  me  cruelly,  and  can 
edify  nobody. 

" '  Firsl — That  during  the  lifetime  of  Mrs.  Seymour  I  held  Rationalistic 
views,  and  perverted  my  darling  friend's  mind  with  them ;  and  this  was, 
as  he  understands,  the  cause  of  my  remorse  after  her  death. 

"  '  Second — ^That  "  in  spite  of  this,  Mr.  Graham  was  able  to  assure  me 
she  did  not  die  without  Christian  hope." 

" '  1.  I  was  instructed  in  the  Christian  verities  from  my  cradle  by  my 
dear  mother,  who  was  a  saint  and  a  deeply-read  theologian.  I  have  de- 
clared my  faith  in  my  books  many  times,  and,  in  face  of  that  public  dec- 
laration. Dr.  Stanton's  statement  is  really  too  unscrupulous  in  itself,  and 
the  base  of  another  calumny ;  for  my  deceased  friend,  though  a  less  in- 
structed, was  a  firm  believer.  She  acted  the  Gospel  more  than  she  talked 
it ;  but  she  could  speak  too.  I  remember  once,  when  some  sceptical  opin- 
ions were  mooted  before  her,  she  said,  with  a  certain  majesty  and  power 
she  could  command  on  uncommon  occasions,  'And  what  can  tuey  give 

THE  WORLD  TO  MAKE  CP  FOR  THE  GLORIOUS  HOPE  THEY  WOULD  ROB  IT  OF !' 

" '  These  were  her  words  to  the  letter. 

"  '  2.  Mrs.  Seymour  and  I  were  old  people,  you  know.  During  the  nine- 
teen years  I  lived  in  the  same  house  with  her  she  led  an  innocent  life,  a 
self-denying  life,  and  a  singularly  charitable  life.  In  the  exercise  of  this 
grace  there  was  scarcely  a  Scriptural  precept  she  did  not  fulfil  to  the  let- 
ter. She  was  merciful  to  all  God's  creatures ;  she  took  the  stranger  into 
lier  house  for  months ;  she  cared  for  the  orphan  ;  she  visited  and  nursed 
the  sick ;  she  comforted  the  afHictcd  in  mind ;  she  relieved  the  poor  in 
various  classes  of  life,  constantly  hiding  her  bounty  from  others,  and 
sometimes  from  its  very  objects.  Those  charities  are  still  continued  out 
of  her  funds,  and  through  the  influence  of  her  example. 

" '  God  drew  her  nearer  to  him  by  five  months  of  acute  suffering.  She 
bore  her  agonies  (from  cancer  of  the  liver)  with  meek  resignation,  and 
sorrow  for  me,  who  was  to  lose  her,  but  none  for  herself. 

"'Several  days  before  her  death  she  made  a  distinct  declaration  of  her 
faith,  viz.,  that  she  relied  not  on  her  good  and  charitable  works,  but  only 
on  the  merits  of  her  Redeemer.  Three  days  before  her  death  she  par- 
took of  the  Iloly  Communion  with  fervent  responses  and  such  an  ex- 
pression of  pious  rapture  ns  I  never  saw  on  any  human  face  before. 


446  Memoir  of  Charles  Reade. 

"  *  My  grief  for  her  is  selfish.  You  know  what  I  have  lost — a  peerless 
creature,  wise,  just,  and  full  of  genius,  yet  devoted  to  roe.  She  alone  sus- 
tained me  in  the  hard  battle  of  my  life,  and  now,  old  and  brolieu,  I  must 
totter  on  without  her,  sick,  sad,  and  lonely. 

" '  My  remorse  is  for  this.  I  had  lived  entirely  for  the  world,  and  so  dis- 
quieted her  with  my  cares,  instead  of  leading  her  on  the  path  of  peace, 
and  robbed  God  of  a  saint,  though  not  of  a  believer.  I  did  also  afBict  my- 
self with  doubts  of  her  eternal  welfare,  but  where  there  is  great  affection 
there  is  always  great  solicitude.  Bereaved  Christians  torment  tliemselves 
with  this  tender  anxiety  more  than  bereaved  Rationalists  do.  Mr.  C.  Gra- 
ham, when  he  knew  the  particulars  of  her  life  and  death,  never  shared  my 
anxieties.  lie  removed  them  entirely.  That  living  evangelist  showed  me 
ray  doubts  were  in  reality  doubts  of  God's  goodness  and  wisdom,  and  of 
his  special  promises.  But  the  words  Mr.  Stanton  has  put  into  his  mouth 
deny  the  faith  and  ignore  the  charity  of  her  whole  life,  and  cast  negative 
hope,  which  is  positive  doubt,  upon  her  condition  at  her  death. 

" '  Christian  parents  who  have  lost  their  young,  and  all  who  have 
cherished  a  Christian  love  and  buried  its  object,  will  surely  sympathize 
with  my  bleeding  heart,  and  aid  me  to  correct  these  cruel  surmises  of 
brutal  gossip. 

"  '  For  the  reasons  I  gave  you,  do  not  object  to  minor  inaccuracies ;  but 
kindly  make  it  understood  that  I  do  not  in  my  own  person  endorse  any 
man's  religious  animosities.  It  would  ill  become  me  to  asperse  the 
Church  of  England  or  any  other  community  that  has  bred  holy  men, 
whose  shoes  I  am  not  worthy  to  tie.     I  am,  my  dear  ITatton, 

" '  Yours  sincerely,  Charles  Reade.' 

"The  public  will  miss  in  the  above  singularly  touching 
letter  the  pungent  philippics  of  this  master  of  English  invec- 
tive. Under  the  inspiration  of  the  great  author's  gentler 
mood,  I  suppose  I  ought  not  even  to  try  and  supply  their 
place ;  yet  it  seems  to  me  that  Dr.  Stanton  has  been  guilty  of 
an  outrage,  not  only  upon  his  own  sacred  calling,  but  upon 
the  profession  of  journalism.  '  Interviewing '  has  become  an 
established  institution  of  the  press  on  both  sides  of  the  At- 
lantic ;  but  it  is  conducted  openly,  and  always  with  the  con- 
sent of  the  person  whose  views  are  sought  for  publication. 
Dr.  Stanton  imports  a  vicious  feature  into  the  collection  of 
news  and  opinions  when  he  plays  the  role  of  a  detective  of- 
ficer, and  uses  his  intimacy  with  a  clerical  brother  to  prey 


Appendix.  447 

upon  the  secret  workings  of  another  man's  heart,  to  proclaim 
to  the  world  his  private  thoughts  and  hopes  and  feelings; 
and,  worst  of  all,  to  distort  and  misinterpret  them  at  last.  If 
Dr.  Stanton  had  been  a  trained  journalist  instead  of  a  clerical 
scribbler,  he  would  not  have  failed — at  least  to  describe  ac- 
curately what  he  saw  and  heard ;  and  a  long  experience  of 
journalism  enables  me  to  say  that  the  most  daring  interviewer 
would  have  asked  permission  or  guidance  from  the  person 
most  interested  before  converting  that  person's  private  griefs 
and  sorrows  into  newspaper  <  copy,' 

"  One  cannot  read  the  cold-blooded  work  of  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Stanton  without  feeling  that  under  the  cloak  of  a  religious 
mission  he  has  done  a  wicked  and  cruel  wrong.  Nor  has  he 
gone  astray  unwittingly.  Warned  that  Mr.  Reade  was  sensi- 
tive as  to  anything  being  said  in  the  papers  about  his  conver- 
sations with  Mr.  Graham,  he  nevertheless  *  works  up'  into  a 
newspaper  article  all  he  has  heard  in  Mr.  Graham's  family  cir- 
cle. This  not  being  quite  strong  enough  for  a  genuine  sen- 
sational letter,  he  evolves  from  his  own  inner  consciousness 
the  idea  that  Mr.  Reade  has  been  '  converted '  from  rational- 
ism to  Christianity.  Nothing  could  be  more  false,  not  even 
Dr.  Stanton's  analysis  of  Charles  Reade's  grief.  Those  who 
have  any  knowledge  of  English  classics  need  not  be  reminded 
of  the  broad,  practical  Christianity  which  pervades  the  writ- 
ings of  Charles  Reade,  whom  Dr.  Stanton  evidently  heard  of 
for  the  first  time  the  other  day.  All  his  works  bear  witness 
against  this  charge  of  rationalism.  '  Peg  Woffington,' '  Chris- 
tie Johnstone,'  '  Put  Yourself  in  His  Place,'  '  The  Cloister 
and  the  Hearth '  —  where  are  we  to  find  nobler  lessons  of 
life  or  a  more  refreshing  Christianity  than  in  these  models 
of  masculine  fancy  and  sterling  Anglo  -  Saxon  literature  ? 
Taking  up  at  random  the  last-mentioned  work,  I  came  upon 
one  of  the  most  heartfelt  interpretations  of  religious  faith 
and  fervor  in  all  the  range  of  fiction : 

"'"Forever!"  he  cried  aloud  with  sadden  ardor;  "Chris- 


448  Memoir  of  Charles  Meade. 

tians  live  *  forever,'  and  love  *  forever,'  but  they  do  not  part 
'  forever.'  They  part  as  part  the  earth  and  sun,  to  meet  more 
brightly  in  a  little  while.  You  and  I  part  here  for  life ;  and 
what  is  our  life  ?  One  line  in  the  great  story  of  the  Church, 
whose  son  and  daughter  we  are ;  one  handful  in  the  sand  of 
time,  one  drop  in  the  ocean  of  '  forever.'  Adieu  for  the  little 
moment  called  *  a  life.'  We  part  in  trouble ;  wc  shall  meet  in 
peace.  We  part  creatures  of  clay  ;  we  shall  meet  immortal 
spirits.  We  part  in  a  world  of  sin  and  sorrow  ;  we  shall  meet 
where  all  is  purity  and  love  divine ;  where  no  ill  passions 
are,  but  Christ  is,  and  his  saints  around  him  clad  in  white. 
There  in  the  turning  of  an  hour-glass,  in  the  breaking  of  a 
bubble,  in  the  passing  of  a  cloud,  she,  and  thou,  and  I  shall 
meet  again,  and  sit  at  the  feet  of  angels  and  archangels,  and 
apostles  and  saints,  and  beam  like  them  with  joy  unspeakable, 
in  the  light  of  the  shadow  of  God  upon  his  throne,  forever, 
and  ever,  and  ever." ' 

"  I  know  that  the  churches  put  faith  above  works.  Tliat 
is  their  business.  Christ  taught  the  Gospel  of  works,  the 
blessing  of  doing  good.  Fifteen  years  ago  I  met  Charles 
Reade  for  the  first  time.  I  had  long  known  and  admired 
him  through  his  books.  Since  then  I  have  known  him,  as 
all  his  friends  have,  as  a  generous,  liberal,  warm-hearted 
Christian  gentleman. 

"  As  for  poor,  dead  Mrs.  Seymour,  I  feel  inclined  to  quote 
against  the  reverend  reporter  of  the  Independent  the  protest 
of  Laertes  at  the  grave  of  Ophelia,  which,  with  the  change  of 
one  word,  admirably  fits  the  situation : 

"  •  I  tell  thee,  churlish  priest, 
A  ministering  angel  shall  our  sister  be 
When  thou  liest  howling.' 

"Joseph  Hatton. 
"Gabrick  Club,  London,  June  17, 1880." 

THE    END. 


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PR 
5216 

A5 


■f 


